


The Fallen Prince

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A 2300-year-old prince in the modern world, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Archaeologist!Alfor and Zarkon, But otherwise is pretty separate from that story, Engineer!Allura, F/M, Family Drama, Historical References, Kitty cat shenanigans, Lifted a few worldbuilding elements from AR, Lotura - Freeform, Past Character Death, Reincarnation, Remix of a mummy story, Romance, Some angst and some comedy too, Zarkon and Alfor friendship, Zonerva, human!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25573015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: Human!AU. Archaeologists Alfor and Zarkon attempt to uncover the history of a half-Persian, half-Egyptian prince who had been murdered and stricken from most records. It isn’t until Alfor’s daughter, Allura, visits their dig site in the valley of Oriande that they find the tomb. Soon, they discover that this 2,300-year-old fallen prince is not quite what they expect, and that they have connections with him reaching across millennia...
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Haggar/Zarkon (Voltron), Honerva/Zarkon (Voltron)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 92
Collections: Adrenaline Rush Alternate Universe (AR-AU) Stories





	1. Chapter 1

Dark, nimble fingers slid down the stone in awe, catching the soft engraving of a hieroglyph. Its once sharp edges had degraded over millennia. “I can’t believe it,” came a soft, female voice. Big blue eyes gleamed with a teary mist. “Father, you were right. All this time, you were right.”

An older man with white hair stood a short distance away, his voice lilting with Arabic to a few other site workers. His eyes slid to his daughter, and his face stretched with a great smile. He waved to his colleagues, then moved to the great wall where his daughter stood. He switched to Punjabi, voice light and teasing. “Did you doubt me, daughter?”

Her fingers slipped from the carved stone. They stood in the middle of an excavated tomb that had once been buried by the sands of the Egyptian desert. “I suppose I rather did for a time,” she confessed. She turned around, giving her father a fond look. “All of your stories about a missing nephew of Darius III with ties to Egypt, and hidden treasures buried with him in a valley once called Oriande—it all felt like a fairytale.”

Dr. Alfor Singh chuckled lightly. He reached out and settled his hands on her shoulders, his own eyes misting. “I am simply humbled that you could be here with me, on the day of our find.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then pulled away. “It is because of you that we found it. Zarkon and I shall write your name beside ours in the press releases. All will know the name of Allura Singh. Engineer and now junior archaeologist.”

Allura gave him a look, her face-faulting. “Oh, please—I’ve hardly done anything. You and Zarkon have done all the work.”

Her father ran a hand through his hair, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Yes, but this tomb did not want to be found until you arrived. You are our north star.”

She whined playfully. “I simply began digging where you suggested.”

“It was a perfect dig,” Alfor declared, waving off her concerns. His chest had puffed in pride. “Your handling of the quintessence drills were—” And he made a chef’s kiss with his fingers.

Allura crossed her arms. “I _am_ an engineer, you know.” She tilted her chin, a happy little glimmer in her eye. “Although being here, doing all of this—I see the rush you get from it.”

Alfor moved forward. He raised his fingers to the hieroglyphs on the stone guarding the entrance. His voice softened. “It _is_ a different rush from yours. But no less rewarding.” The man then cleared his throat. “Now, if Zarkon and I are correct, then this old cartouche here should give us the name of our missing prince. Or at the very least, someone else in the line of the Achaemenian Dynasty who would have died around 330 BCE. Can you read it, daughter?”

She turned to the stand beside her, upon which rested a notebook and a pen. She teased, “I already translated it while you were taking pictures and shaking hands.” She held out the notebook. “It does seem to be a prince.”

And there, in Allura’s scrawled print, was the translation of the cartouche.

_He of two worlds. He whose life is permanent. He to whom the Maat of Re belongs. Lo-tor._

* * *

It took time for the dig-site workers to move back the entrance stone—one reason being that it was not only Prince Lotor’s name on the stone, but many other warnings that scared those with superstitious leanings.

_Death will fall to all who disturb the slumber of the great prince, who did not slumber in life but sought peace from war._

_Those who enter will perish._

_Their souls will be damned, and their bodies will be eaten by the guardians of the dead._

In a tent beyond the entrance, one man with dark, salt-and-pepper hair looked up from his notebook. His eyes were a strange brown—reflecting nearly red in the Egyptian sun. “They are empty threats,” he called. His voice was a deep, halted tone. “Designed to frighten away grave robbers.”

Alfor leaned forward, knitting his brows curiously. “Yes, but there is something quite curious about these inscriptions.”

Allura sat against the excavated stones. “How so?”

“Usually, such threats do not invoke the character of the one buried. It—it seems to demand that the tomb be left alone by virtue of who this Prince Lotor was.” Alfor then shrugged. “Of course, being damned and then eaten by guardians of the dead isn’t quite an abnormal threat. We _could_ be reading into it.”

The infamous Zarkon Dalir—a military man turned Alfor’s archaeology companion—looked back down at his notebook. He’d traced the cartouche that Allura had translated. His aged face tightened. “His name was Lotor,” he murmured. His halted voice grew ever more unsteady. “Of all the names, Lotor. Is this why I was driven here?” 

Allura pressed her lips together, looking helpless.

It was known that Zarkon Dalir and his wife, Honerva, had once desired children. But a lab accident of Honerva’s had robbed them of even the chance. _Lotor_ was been a name that Zarkon had constructed based off their favorite characters in old books.

Zarkon inhaled shakily, then wiped his eyes, looking raw. “We were meant to find this tomb, Alfor,” he declared. “Do you feel it in the air?”

The man faltered. “Yes, old friend. We worked very hard to find this old fellow. And we’ll learn the prince’s history for the textbooks.”

In that moment, the dig-site workers managed to pull back the stone.

And from it, a great pressure emanated with a hiss.

Allura felt a chill down her spine, and then widened her eyes at the sound of a soft, male sigh on the wind.

* * *

The hidden tomb of the Persian Prince Lotor was dark. The air was largely stale, with thick cobwebs hanging from pillars and rotted sconces. Alfor raised his flashlight, peering in curiously. “It appears our friend has had a peaceful afterlife. No signs of forced entry or ransacking.” He pouted. “No library of scrolls, though.” 

His soft voice echoed off the stones in a reverb.

Beside him, Allura paused, lowering the flashlight she carried. Her brows were knitted together, her lips in a purse.

Alfor turned back. “Allura?”

The woman did not respond for a time, instead raising her arm to look at the goose bumps on her skin. “Do you…feel that?”

“Feel what?”

She awkwardly moved to brush a white curl behind her ear. “It’s a sort of…buzzing feeling. As if we were standing by electrical lines. Or large quintessence vats at a factory.” She managed a nervous laugh. “Are you certain no deposits run through this desert?”

“It _is_ possible that this tomb lies atop a quintessence deposit, but we’ve not run across any yet in our digging.” Around them, many dig-site workers began to pour in, carrying equipment, cameras, and lights. “Perhaps you are a bit more sensitive than I am, after all your time working on engines and inventions.”

Allura clenched her torch a bit more tightly as she weakly smile. “Yes, perhaps that’s it.” But she chilled again as sharp fluorescent lights flickered on, the many voices and languages of the team raising up to the heights of the tomb. Suddenly, the buzzing she felt turned sharp.

A few workers made a noise of surprise only seconds before the bulbs in their fluorescent lights shattered, with shards of glass falling to the dark stones in a patter, like rain.

The tomb’s lighting slipped back into darkness, save for Alfor’s flashlight—which flickered—and Allura’s torch, which moved uneasily from a strange wind. Alfor called out in concern, “Is everyone alright? That was a spot of bad luck if I’ve ever seen it. Maybe our generator surged. Here, let me help you—”

From the entrance, one Zarkon Dalir paced.

 _Those who enter will perish,_ the tomb said.

The man clenched his fist, glancing about at the open site and the sputtering generator sitting atop a truck bed. He leaned his hand against the entrance stone with the cartouche of Prince Lotor, his face tightening. “Alfor, Allura—the generator is flashing red.”

Alfor sighed, his broad shoulders lowering in disappointment. “Of course, technology problems. Honestly, Allura, never doubt the consistency of fire. Our ancestors knew what they were doing when they discovered it.” He kneeled down, helping the workers to pick up the shards of glass.

She squeaked in horror, then reached for him. “Fluorescent lights have mercury—we should all evacuate until we can ventilate this place and clean up the shards with the proper gear.”

Alfor paused. And then he quickly pulled back, looking a bit pale. “Ah, is that so?”

_Those who enter will perish._

Allura complained, voice breaking, “You’re supposed to know these things, father.”

His smooth voice raised up with incredulity. “I study ancient technologies and civilizations—not modern health hazards. Honestly my dear, why do people even use fluorescent if it is so dangerous?”

She began to halfway drag him out of the tomb, back toward the entrance, where numerous others had skittishly retreated. “Come on,” she pleaded. “Let’s get the health team involved on this one. And I can work on your generator for you.”

Alfor looked down at his hands. “I, ah, would appreciate that.” He made a nervous chuckle. “But perhaps we’d do better with good old-fashioned fire. We can light these sconces on the walls and still manage to translate and move around…maybe flashlights are still safe.”

As they made it back to the entrance, Allura gave Zarkon a worried look. “It’s just as well you all brought me along. I do believe we should scan for quintessence deposits. The generator surge might be related to an underground flowing system of some kind. There’s positive and negative charges with it.”

The man’s hand slipped from the cartouche of Prince Lotor. He fell silent for a time, then said, voice catching oddly, “Could the quintessence lines you suggest breach the walls of this tomb? Does this mean we cannot proceed with the excavation?”

Allura walked away from her father, still feeling a great chill as she stared at the flickering torch in her hand. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Quintessence is quite toxic in its raw, unfiltered state. It’s very possible your builders for this tomb laid the foundations on top of a deposit for that purpose, to deter grave robbers. But one would have to touch it to get hurt. Let’s get this tomb ventilated first.” She pressed her lips together, her blue eyes widening innocently. “And do you happen to have a heat scanner? With it, I can map out any possible zones where quintessence could be leaking through the stones. I’d very much like to ensure that this tomb’s threats of death don’t become a reality.”

Zarkon looked mildly bewildered.

Alfor meanwhile was running his hands under a portable sink, scrubbing at his hands in mild concern. “We do have a scanner in the Red Lion’s cab. I did in fact remember to bring one.”

Across the site were five state-of-the-art expedition trucks that Allura had designed for her father’s expeditions, affectionately naming them Lions. Each boasted a glossy paint-job of Alfor’s favorite colors. Already, several site workers were digging through the truck beds, grabbing cleaning gloves and masks and fans to begin working to ventilate the tomb and clean up the mercury from the shattered fluorescent bulbs.

Allura’s face relaxed in relief. “Oh good. If you don’t mind, I’ll fire up that scanner of yours and test it on this entrance here for a baseline.”

“Very good.” Alfor tilted his chin to Zarkon, his eyes misting in a teasing pride. “Is my daughter not absolutely my greatest accomplishment? Zarkon, old friend, you should really consider adopting, for all the blessings that children bring to old people like you and me.”

The man was helping site workers as they exited the tomb, taking some of their light stands to set aside. His face twitched hard at Alfor’s suggestion. “Honerva and I will not adopt. And I am not old.”

“Of course, you’re old,” Alfor retorted in a mild amusement. “I’ve a fully grown daughter with a master’s degree. And you’re older than I am. It’s high time you found a son or a daughter of your own, in some way. I promise you will not regret it.”

Zarkon, for all of his hulking, muscled frame, looked broken in that moment as he stared hard back at Alfor. “I do agree,” he said slowly, “that Allura is the best of you.”

The young woman neared the Red Lion, opening the door and searching through her father’s bags. She called over her shoulder, her white bun bouncing with her movements, “Truly, Zarkon, if you keep talking like that, I’ll have to believe you were a diplomat in a former life. I do think most couldn’t handle my father as well as you do.” 

Alfor complained lightly, “I am very amiable, even if I didn’t know that fluorescent lights contained mercury. But as I have said before, we all learn things every day. And that is what makes life worth living.”

Zarkon hesitated, holding onto a light stand. “Honerva and I—we _would_ adopt,” he admitted, “if we could.”

Allura found a small quintessence scanner and pulled it out to inspect its controls, all while Alfor raised a brow in an increasing concern. “You mean you…can’t?”

There was a silence for a time as Zarkon set down the light stand alongside others. “Honerva’s condition, and my own work, make it difficult to convince agencies that we would be good parents.”

“Did they have any suggestions at all, old friend?”

“…They suggested getting a cat,” Zarkon grumped. And a mild, miserable humor came over him in that moment. “A _cat_.”

Allura flicked on the scanner, turning around with a hum of interest as the system booted up. Her father and Zarkon’s banter faded out as she concentrated, turning dials to focus in on the tomb before them.

Quintessence as an energy source harbored heat within it. And sure enough, the scanner began to pick up real-time color depictions of quintessence deposits. They appeared as a red-orange on the scanner, streaming out like a river deep underground.

Allura raised the scanner, curious of the tomb’s entrance.

And then she froze, her eyes widening.

There on the scanner was a cold blue form, in the shape of a man with long hair, standing at the entrance. The form’s chest was nearly purple with the lack of heat emanating from it. Its face seemed to focused directly upon her.

She dropped the scanner with a squeak.

Alfor looked back at his daughter in concern. “Allura, dear? Are you alright?”

The woman knelt in the sand, her fingers shaking, her dark face pale. “Ah—y-yes!” She reached for the scanner, which still buzzed with the imagery of quintessence deposits beneath the earth. But as the scanner was no longer pointed at the entrance, it no longer carried the disturbing image of a man’s form. She blinked away her fright, damning her rabbit heart. “My hands are just slippery, I suppose.”

And then she dared to raise the scanner again, only to breathe out when the tomb’s entrance reflected as black.

For all of her engineering education, she stood slightly frightened of the tomb now. Her voice strangled. “It does appear that we have significant quintessence vats beneath this tomb. But I don’t see evidence of it leaking up through the stones. At least at the entrance. I would need to, um, take this scanner through the whole of the tomb to confirm it’s entirely safe, though.”

She chilled again at the thought that in doing so, she would possibly encounter the form of the man.

Or something more.

* * *

It wasn’t long either until the tomb was ventilated, with the glass cleaned up and mercury siphoned into sealed bags for disposal later. Alfor and Zarkon worked alongside the workers to clean up the mess and construct fire torches, fearful of another unexpected power surge from the quintessence beneath the tomb. Several workers were hesitant now, eyeing the tomb in suspicion of its secrets.

“At first glance,” Alfor was saying, calling over his shoulder as Allura skittishly entered behind him, “these walls here all seem to carry invocations of various Egyptian, Persian, even Indian gods. This wall here is calling upon the name of Ahura Mazda—and this one, Zeus. Our friend seems to have caught a most fascinating time just before the fall of the empire to Alexander the Great.”

Beside him, Zarkon swung a torch, narrowing his eyes. He grumped. “His many gods do not appear to have answered his prayers.” 

“Perhaps you’re right,” Alfor mourned. “These invocations are for peace and rest. And yet, now here _we_ are.”

Allura continued to nervously raise the scanner, in search of the mysterious form haunting the entrance. In doing so, she bumped against one of the walls and nearly squeaked again, turning around only to see more hieroglyphs. She breathed out, her face weary as she stared at the glyphs in a mild interest.

Surrounding them was a depiction of the supreme Iranian god Zorvan, with his equally powerful sons, the good Ahura Mazda and the evil Angra Mainyu shown in a battle. Beneath the depiction was a painted prince. He was tall with long, black hair streaming from him, with a bow and arrow raised against Angra Mainyu, in solidarity with the god of good.

Allura lowered the scanner, shakily reaching out to touch the wall. “Oh,” she whispered. Though her translation skills were not as immediate as her father’s, her eyes caught the story of the strange Persian and Egyptian Prince. 

The more she read, the more that her eyes misted. Her fingers trailed along the glyphs, one by one. _He whose mother carried the blood of Egypt’s Pharaohs and the will of Ra, whose father carried the blood of Persian Shahs. Twice royal son._

It appeared, however, for all of his pedigree, his father’s love for an Egyptian princess had greatly diminished both his father and his own influence, such that his father could not rule. The Prince Lotor had later been murdered by his own uncle in fear that he had been radicalized toward Egyptian freedom from Persian rule, further destabilizing the empire’s defenses against invasions from Alexander III of Macedon. 

The temple itself was an effort of love that his parents secretly built for him, meshing together their cultures in any way they knew how, in desperation that someone would save their son’s soul. Among the inscriptions was a somewhat sloppy addition of Middle Persian in Aramaic script—an engraving from his father, with a promise that he would no longer fight in the name of the Persian Empire, and that he understood his name would be stricken from all records. The father doubted his own salvation but hoped his son’s preserved soul would perhaps carry on the memory of his name.

Allura swallowed down hard emotion, suddenly pulling away from the wall, rapidly blinking her eyes, which brightened with tears. “Oh,” she whispered.

The pictures moved along with an image of a heavily armored Persian man kneeling beside an Egyptian princess in white, the both of them working together to lower a much smaller sarcophagus beside the coffin of their son.

The little sarcophagus carried a cat face upon it, and beneath the picture were various invocations for Bastet, the Egyptian cat god, as well as mournings for a family pet named _Ko-va_. The hieroglyphs suggested that Kova had died shortly after the death of the Prince Lotor, unable to live without him.

“How terribly sad,” she whispered, holding tight to her quintessence scanner as she looked over the hieroglyphs and the pictures, in awe of the painful history of the prince who was half of Egypt and half of Persia.

So caught up was she that she missed the increasing buzz in the air, and that upon her scanner, the cold blue form of a man had returned.

It leaned against a nearly pillar, crossing its arms, its hair fluttering with an invisible wind.

At its feet, a smaller, cat-like form with a long tail nuzzled against its leg.

The form raised its hand. And then suddenly, all the torches throughout the tomb blew out into darkness, the wind surging hard against Allura, drying the tears on her cheeks while pushing her back against a wall, which moved…

* * *

Alfor puzzled. “It appears the builders of the tomb were inspired by the construction of the pyramids. This large room seems to function as an antechamber, which suggests that likely, the true burial chambers lie beneath this structure somehow. And these other rooms here likely contain the prince’s belong—”

Suddenly, Allura’s cry of fear echoed through the tomb.

The father panicked, his eyes widening. “—Allura? What was that? Are you alright?”

Allura had fallen down a forward incline as the trick wall gave way—only to land on dark stones with a wince, her quintessence scanner clattering to the floor. It began to buzz, its screen bleeding a full red-orange with the presence of quintessence. Allura groaned lightly, her white brows knitting together. “Um, I’m alright,” she called out weakly, voice still a bit watery. “I don’t know how, but a wall gave out.”

On the other side of the antechamber, Alfor’s eyes lit up. “Ah, a trick wall. Of course. Allura, my dear, I shall be there momentarily. Do you see anything in your location?”

She blearily moved to sit up, dusting off her jean shorts and her button-up shirt. And then she weakly glanced about, only for her lips to drop open. “The—the—”

She had stumbled into the burial chamber of the murdered Prince Lotor. Four high walls hid his sarcophagus. And there was a bubbling sound from beneath the lid, as well as the tell-tale glow of quintessence from the crack between the walls and the lid.

The room was cold from being so far underground.

Soon, Alfor and Zarkon appeared, sliding down the incline in great surprise. “What on earth?”

Allura shakily moved to stand, in awe of the resting place of Prince Lotor. “I believe he’s in there,” she whispered. “I can feel it, even. The quintessence. It’s a very large vat of quintessence.”

Alfor looked bewildered. “Do you mean to say they buried him in it?”

She waved her hand helplessly. “It appears that way.”

And despite the plated gold around the barricade, all three of them stared at the glowing quintessence from the cracks in the stone.

Alfor snapped his protected gloves, looking determined. “I’ve never seen a burial like this,” he murmured. He pulled out his camera, snapping pictures. “This is highly unusual procedure for any ancient culture. The Egyptians were very particular that mummified bodies be dried out to avoid further decomposition, and the Persians were not known for sinking their dead like this. This prince fellow is even more fascinating than we could have ever imagined. Zarkon, old friend? Would you help me uncover his resting place?”

Zarkon pulled his own safety gloves from his back pocket, looking hesitant. “We will expose ourselves to quintessence.”

“It’s not harmful if you don’t touch it,” Alfor murmured merrily. “Allura, dear—fantastic work again. We should always bring you along on our expeditions.”

She gave him a helpless look. “I merely stumbled. There was a wind that blew me.”

“Then you know precisely how to fall, and that’s just as important as knowing how to fly.” He approached the white-glowing structure, grabbing onto the lid. “Zarkon?”

Two additional hands came to rest on the other hand. “On three,” Zarkon murmured.

And then Alfor and Zarkon grunted as they moved the lid, scooting it to the side—the entire room swelling with the bright light of quintessence—

Therein was, just as Allura predicted, a glowing vat of quintessence—and a sunken body bearing a gold-plated mask. 

Zarkon and Alfor huffed lightly from their exertion, but it was Allura who first approached the resting place, her eyes wide as she leaned over and gazed upon the body of Prince Lotor of the Persian Empire.

Deep in the plasma, Lotor appeared as a fully-fleshed, sleeping man, with his arms crossed over his chest, his strong arms bearing gold-plated vambraces. He wore clothes in the way of his Egyptian heritage from his mother, his chest bare save for a bejeweled collar, a dark blue linen kilt wrapped around his waist, glimmering with gold threads.

And he did not appear decayed—but as if he were simply sleeping, the pleats of his Egyptian kilt wavering in the plasma. Thick white hair hallowed around the gold mask hiding his face.

“By god,” Alfor breathed in surprise, his eyes widening in consternation. In a daze, he raised his camera again and began to snap photos. “Why, this is absolutely extraordinary. Zarkon, Allura—are you seeing this?”

“I’m seeing it,” Allura squeaked. “Having…difficulty believing it.”

Zarkon stared at the body within, his red eyes hard in increasing emotion. “I swear I see him breathing,” he declared, his voice catching hard. “And moving.”

And the closer Allura looked, the more she paled. The dead prince’s chest rose and fell with living breath, the plasma moving by virtue of his involuntary movements and from the occasional twitch of fingers and his bare toes.

She gaped openly, her voice breaking. “This is impossible. Quintessence is very, very toxic. Perhaps it could preserve a body like embalming fluid, but this man—it’s as if he’s still _living_ through it.”

Alfor flickered worried eyes to Allura. “If his tomb suggests anything, it’s that he’s been in contact with it for over 2,300 years. And that he _had_ originally died. Nerve toxins aside—we’ve never studied quintessence’s long-term effect on a dead body.”

“You’re not suggesting that—”

“I do not have to suggest it, daughter,” Alfor pressed in awe. “Look at this man before you. Tell me how else you could explain this.”

Upon the prince’s naked chest was a starburst scar, just over his heart, where his uncle had murdered him. The skin stretched with breath.

She stared at the death mask that looked back at her with open, blue eyes, and she pulled away suddenly, a chill down her spine. “It’s possible that these are strange manifestations of chemical reactions,” she said shakily. “He could very well be dead. It would explain why his death mask does not move. It, along with the quintessence, would have suffocated any living man.”

Alfor’s eyes flickered to her. “They wouldn’t have buried him without one. A death mask is a very important aspect of Egyptian burials. They believed it would help a soul recognize and return to its own body. It’s possible that whoever buried him like this…simply did not know what quintessence would do to him.”

Allura’s own frightened eyes dared to look back at the resting place of Prince Lotor. “…Or perhaps they _did_ know.”

And it was then that new movement caught their eye. Within the quintessence vat, the prince’s neck suddenly turned to face Allura, his haunting death mask looking up at her.

She squeaked. All three humans scattered backward in fright.

* * *

The tomb of Prince Lotor of the Persian Empire came to be shrouded in great secrecy. The dig-site workers were largely forbidden to enter, per Allura’s findings of “uncontained quintessence” in the burial chamber. Alfor gave them all their full salaries for the day and then sent them on their way. The privacy provided Allura the space she needed to construct a strap-pulley system—to carefully raise the body of Prince Lotor from his quintessence coffin.

Sweat beaded down her temples as she hooked up the generator to her makeshift pulley. Her fingers shook as she tested the resistance of the straps and rachets. “Um, alright,” she said breathlessly. She raised her arm to wipe sweat from her temples. “So we’ll wheel both of these over the structure—one by his head and then the other at his feet. These U-shaped straps will drop per the weight of the rachets. We’ll slip the straps beneath him, and once he’s secure, we’ll push this button. The straps will retract, lifting him out of the quintessence. And then we can roll him away from the vat.”

Alfor curiously tapped one of the steel beams that Allura had screwed together onto a rolling platform. “Fascinating design, daughter.”

She gave him a weak smile, looking up. “It’s not perfect, but at least I could build it out of what you had on hand.”

It’d taken the better half of the evening. Now, it was dark outside the tomb, the Egyptian stars glimmering bright above the increasingly cold, hostile desert. A draft slipped through the tomb, flickering the fire from the many torches that Zarkon was struggling to keep lit. The man grumped as he raised a torch on yet another piece of wood that had blown out. “It is nearing midnight now. How much longer?”

There was an anxiousness in him. He occasionally stared down at the body in the quintessence vat, his face tightening in an odd worry.

“Not much,” Allura comforted him. “A couple more minutes are nothing compared to the 2,300 years before.” 

Alfor pulled away, grabbing for his protective gloves and the face shields they’d found in the medical supplies kit. “You know what they say,” he declared merrily. “Midnight is always the perfect time for mischief. And I did see it was a full moon. What better night is there to raise a mummy.”

“How can you make light of this?” Zarkon retorted, his eyes hardening as he grabbed for a face shield of his own.

The other man tapped on his face shield, then moved to drape protective plastic over his clothing. “I’ll have you know, old friend, without humor, I’d have already been rocking in fetal position in that corner over there. Humor is armor against the insanity of this world.” 

“Humor or not,” Allura warned softly. “I don’t know what we’re raising. If these muscle contractions aren’t involuntary responses to the properties of quintessence, then we might need to send a 2,300-year-old prince to a hospital. Or else, this man might decay before our eyes once he’s removed from the vat.”

Zarkon’s voice strained. “I have the truck bed of the Red Lion lined with plastic and blankets, if we must transfer him to medical care.”

“I’m not sure which situation I’d prefer,” Alfor murmured. “How would we explain him to the hospital? Given that quintessence has preserved him so well, what if it has other effects on him? Would they take him away and experiment on him, even?”

“If he lives, he should have rights as a citizen,” Zarkon retorted hesitantly.

“Ah, but this tomb and everything in it belongs to the government.” Alfor tied two ends of the plastic drape behind his neck. “With no papers, no modern records, who but us would know the government was hiding a person with the secrets of immortality and healing in their blood? It would all be so easy to cover up.”

Allura’s gloved fingers hesitated on the pulley. She pulled away, looking up at her father in consternation. “You believe _we_ are in danger?”

“Of course.” Alfor’s pleasant humor faded for a time as he stared at her, his expression grim and worried. “So, I will wish that this man is truly dead, and that he decays the instant we fish him out.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Alfor had something of a scheming mind. He bit his lip, then said in a miserable humor, “I would pray then that we need no hospital. And perhaps we could convince him to play a poor mute.” He began to fret. “What language would this man even know. Ah, Coptic? No, no, that was too late. Even Late Egyptian was a bit too early for him. Demotic, perhaps? Old Persian? Maybe even Middle Persian, Pahlavi?” He snapped his fingers. “Zarkon, you have a far stronger understanding of Persian than I do. You might be able to communicate with him the best given how well preserved the Persian language is across the ages. In which case, if this fellow is in fact alive, we’ll call him a family member of yours who hit his head at the dig site and got his words all scrambled about.”

Zarkon face-faulted, but there was a twitch of hilarity on his face. He pulled his own face shield on, which hid a sharp scar down his cheek from his military days. “Is this your answer to the stumbling blocks Honerva and I have with adopting? To toss an undead mummy at me?”

Alfor airily waved his hand at the floating body. “He’s far more human than a cat, you must agree. And you’re already fond of him. I feel it in your energy, and I see it on your face.”

“I do not wish for a man to drown for the rest of eternity,” Zarkon grumped, but his eyes slid to the vat of quintessence in a pain. “I cannot read Egyptian as well as you, but I saw the pictures in this tomb. This man has suffered greatly.”

Allura cut in softly. “Then let’s give him the rest he deserves, in one way or another. Yes?”

Zarkon turned to her, searching her eyes and stressed face. “Yes.”

She pulled away from her contraption, inhaling as she began to push it toward the great vat. “Alright, then—if you can wheel the other half to your side, we can start lifting him out of there.” She quickly began to pull on a face shield of her own, as well as plastic wrap, mimicking her father and Zarkon’s attempts at makeshift protective gear. She exhaled shakily, then managed a nervous laugh. “My heart is pounding.”

Alfor moved forward to the vat, helping Zarkon to wheel over the second half of Allura’s pulley system. He carefully lifted the U-shaped strap and lowered it into the quintessence, where it began to sink. It made a harsh clink on the bottom of the vat’s stone. He suddenly added, “What if our friend is violent? He _could_ be violent, considering the last thing he saw was his murderer. Zarkon, I do hope you remember your training from all those years ago.”

The older man gave him a flat look. “Of course, but a show of violence in response would frighten anyone.”

“We’re bound to frighten him anyway,” Alfor deadpanned, waving at his face shield and plastic wrap. “Look at us.”

Allura quickly re-hooked each electrical cable to the generator they’d dragged into the burial chamber. “Okay, I believe we’re set.” She lowered her side’s straps into the quintessence and waited for it to sink before moving the straps beneath the prince’s head and neck, to just under his shoulders. “Are we ready?”

Alfor hesitantly raised up his camera. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose so. I feel as though I should…pray.”

She paused beside the generator. “Maybe we _should_ ,” she said softly. 

Between them were three faiths.

Zarkon’s dark eyes slid to the body in the quintessence. He swallowed hard, then closed his eyes, pressing his hands against the stone wall. “I have not prayed in many years,” he murmured, voice straining. “If any god is real, they do not listen to us.”

Allura pressed her hands against the stone as well. “You never know for sure,” she said lightly. Her eyes lit in a soft way. “Perhaps we simply do not understand their silence or the ways in which they speak.”

“You’re supposed to be an engineer,” Zarkon retorted lightly.

She tilted her head. Her full lips split from behind her face shield in a fond, teasing way. “Not all things can be explained by science, you know.” She raised a hand to her heart, recalling the image of the blue form that had haunted the entrance to the tomb, as if it had been unable to walk beyond it. “And it’s quite…strange. I feel as though we were meant to be here.”

A buzzing raised from the quintessence scanner that rested in the far corner of the room. Upon its screen, a blue form reached forward to the vat of quintessence, its long, spindly fingers decohering into the larger whole—

And then suddenly, Zarkon pulled his hands away from the stone, looking haunted. His breath caught unsteadily. “I—I cannot pray,” he murmured. His scarred face paled. 

Alfor turned to him, brows knitting together. “Are you alright, old friend?”

Zarkon looked down at his hand in consternation and a mild disquiet. He turned his hand, then dared to set it back on the stone, and then lifted it off again—as if he were mimicking something. “No,” he said, his voice catching oddly. “I want this man out of the quintessence, and I do not wish to set foot in this room again. I feel as though I have…already prayed for such things.”

Alfor set his own hands upon the stone. He fell quiet for a short time, before pulling away again. “Then this man is truly blessed, that you would even attempt it for him.” His voice softened.

Allura pulled her hands away as well, her fingers fervent upon the switch for the generator. “Are we ready now?”

Alfor nodded, and then Zarkon did so, but he stepped away, looking overwhelmed.

A second or two passed. And then Allura flipped the switch.

The generator roared to life, and the straps tightened as the pulleys began to turn, eating up the slack—and then slowly reeling in the straps themselves.

The body lifted with a jerk. The prince’s head tilted back, his arms slipping down from his chest. As the body raised, his neck tilted farther back. Then his head breached the waters, his golden death mask glimmering in the torchlight, his white hair hanging down in thick clumps. His chest and hips rose from the water, his blue kilt water-logged, the pleats hanging in a twist about him.

“A little more,” Allura encouraged, her heart pounding.

Soon, the body hung limp above the vat, cradled by the straps. Rivulets of quintessence trailed down his skin, like glowing veins slipping from his long fingers. The death mask unsettled, the bejeweled neck collar catching the lights of the torches in a colorful array.

The death mask upon him began to slip from the backward angle of his neck, and Allura squeaked, standing up on her tip-toes to catch it before it could fall into the quintessence with a splash.

The warm, wet gold clinked in her fingers, and she shakily pulled it away to reveal—the face of a sleeping man, with high cheekbones and an aristocratic nose. She stared at him in surprise. “Oh.”

“Is his face preserved as well, daughter?” Alfor called to her.

Allura remained transfixed, her eyes wide, trailing the prince’s sharp jaw. He was terribly handsome, and his brows and eyelashes were as white as her own. “Ah, um…yes. Yes, he does have a face.” She cleared her throat, her own cheeks flushing as she looked down at his death mask in her gloved hands. “Perfectly preserved. It’s incredible.”

And then the prince’s chest expanded and contracted in a soft, sleepy breath, his fingers twitching as if in a dream. The muscles in his face tightened, as if he were on the verge of awakening.

Alfor nearly dropped his camera into the vat, backing away. “By god, he _is_ alive.”

“He’s not decaying either,” Allura said, voice quiet and quick. “Whatever this is, he—he must be able to survive outside the quintessence. He’s breathing as if had just been air to him.”

Another breath. The quintessence ran from his face and hair, but it almost appeared as if some of it were drying and sinking into his skin.

“We need to get him down,” Allura said, snapping herself back into action. She glanced worriedly. “Um, we’ll have to be careful we don’t drop him when we move our stands here.”

Zarkon moved forward, as if in a daze. He readjusted the plastic around him, and then he raised his arms. “I can pull him down now. Just hold the stands still.”

And so Alfor and Allura did, watching tensely as Zarkon bit his lip, then gently slid his hands beneath the body of the living, breathing prince. He pulled the man from the straps, and the prince remained limp, his hair dripping small droplets of quintessence against the stone and the floor. The plastic around Zarkon crinkled as he adjusted his arms beneath the prince’s knees and behind his back.

And it was then that Zarkon saw another strange vision—of looking down and holding in his arms a black-haired son splattered in blood, with hollow blue eyes open to heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! This AU was inspired by watching The Mummy movies, as well as actually historically accurate documentaries about Ancient Egypt, haha. I was learning about the complex political events that contributed to Alexander the Great’s invasion of Egypt, and welp, then this story happened. I was really intrigued by how well some character heritages in Adrenaline Rush could be translated over into this story to expound on the history between Persia, India, and Egypt. And as I write more, I’ll probably have several historical notes to explain some of those design decisions. At a certain point, though, I think I also just wanted to play with the mummy trope and kinda turn it in different ways. It always felt sad to me that the "mummy" in The Mummy 1999 had to be evil...
> 
> In the meantime, please review with your thoughts, constructive criticisms, questions, or requests! Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following people for reviewing last time: 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: As always, thank you so much for your very kind and extended reviews! I really love ancient history too, and although I certainly fudge a few details, I hope to do it justice, haha. And ahhh this is definitely a wild AU—but I’m having fun as well with exploring this version of Allura and company. It’s so rare to have a chance to see Zarkon with positive relationships. Thank you again for everything!!
> 
> MalevoLiss (MissLissa1): Ahhh yaas, them Mummy vibes! Such fun movies—I couldn’t resist playing with the concept, haha. Thank you dear for your support and reviews! 
> 
> EtincelleDOR: I SHALL FEED YOU, DEAR! Thanks so much for the review, and I hope you enjoy this next part! 
> 
> Name_is_so_lame: Thank you for reading and reviewing!! I’m so happy you’re enjoying it! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Gosh, thank you! I really love Zarkon and Alfor friendship fics, and I feel like I’ve not explored this too much in my stories. So I’m excited to play with it more here! Thank you as always for your review and support—they mean a lot! 
> 
> spaceChai: Thank you for your review! I hope you enjoy this next chapter! 
> 
> Lady_Experiment: Bless you dear! Thank you so much for your support both here and on discord!! 
> 
> LadyLienDa: Wow, thanks so much for your kind words! Lotura is just too fun to play with—there’s so much possibility in the ship, haha. Thanks again, and I hope you like this next chapter! 
> 
> Asennnaa: Yoo you caught me, lol. Zonerva unable to have children = plot device to bring in one (1) Mumtor, lol. But yaas, Allura is a queen and can handle anything—even mumtor! I get really emotional over Zarkon in particular in this story?? But ahh gosh, I’m so happy you enjoy it! And I hope to do justice to the historical facts, even if I do kinda fudge the facts sometimes to get the story to fit, loll. Thank you as always for your reviews!

Images flitted, like half-remembered dreams. Zarkon’s breath caught. He gently lowered the prince to the floor. Then, he shakily turned the boy’s face, and in doing so, saw himself and his wife reflected back at him in a perfect mix of features.

His fingers slipped in a flinch.

Allura and Alfor scrambled down in a crinkle of plastic. “He’s still breathing,” Allura whispered in awe. 

Alfor, meanwhile, flickered his eyes from Zarkon down to the prince, then back to Zarkon. Then back down to the prince. His white brows knitted together. “Remarkable. He looks very much like you and Honerva. As if he could be your _son_.”

Zarkon failed to speak for a time. He pulled back, kneeling before the prince, his eyes misting hard. 

The sleeping prince breathed out, his brow twitching. The residue of quintessence sunk into the skin of the prince, as if it were air, the glow about him dying away to leave him with merely a waterlogged appearance. But the tomb’s stone floor was cold now with the unforgiving temperatures of the desert, and his dark skin began to chill and goose-bump, his full lips opening in discomfort.

Alfor turned to the side, grabbing for one of the emergency blankets they’d pulled from the truck. He looked as haunted as Zarkon. “Here, let’s—help the boy out.”

The two worked to unravel the blanket, lifting it over the lithe body of the prince. The sensation was enough to wake him up. White eyelashes fluttered. Then, blue eyes—bright as an afternoon sky—opened to the ceiling. The prince’s eyes blearily moved to focus upon Zarkon, searching him without recognition. And then the prince’s lips cracked open, and he hoarsely called, his velvet voice weak in confusion, “… _Pader_?”

Zarkon knew that word. It sounded strange with the ancient inflections of the prince, but it was a Persian word.

_Father?_

The man’s eyes misted hard. It was a word he’d never thought he would hear directed at him. His mind recalled the strange vision of holding the prince in the middle of a torch-lit, private chamber, staring down at his empty, bloodied face.

.

_His son. His son was dead._

_._

And then suddenly, there was a loud, humming roar. Zarkon flinched out of his visions, his dark eyes widening.

Alfor’s voice was a sharp whisper. “What was that?”

Allura turned a worried expression toward the threshold of the burial chamber. “People,” she whispered back. “You _did_ tell the workers this was an unsafe site, yes? All of them?”

“Of course.” Alfor stood up in a fear. “I do not understand why they would return.”

Zarkon planted a hand down on the stone, pulling away from the bleary-eyed, confused prince. “We cannot allow them to see us. It will cause too many questions.” His voice was nearly hoarse with raw emotion.

“Perhaps I should go, and—and talk to them,” Alfor said nervously, readjusting the plastic over him. “I’m already suited up for a cover story about quintessence.”

And then there was the sound of multiple gunshots and a dull thud, with a rise of cries and yells.

Allura froze where she was kneeling. Her skin began to pale. “Don’t go,” she begged, voice tightening. “Father, don’t.”

Zarkon stood up, eyes wild. “Semi-automatics. These are not our coworkers, but robbers.” He turned to the side, looking for a weapon of some kind. “They will not care about the dangers of quintessence if it means artifacts to sell.”

“We seal the door, then,” Allura whispered, voice cracking. “This was a trick door—they won’t be looking here.”

Zarkon moved to the threshold, planting his gloved hands against the stone, grunting as he moved to push it back.

.

_“—We shall conceal the door, my love. No one will desecrate our son’s image again—"_

_—A flicker of raw, bloodshot, kohl-lined eyes. Gold—_

_._

His fingers shook against the stone.

Alfor hesitated before joining Zarkon, giving of his strength as well to move the wall as quietly as possible. “There’s no guarantee they won’t find us,” he whispered in a sharp pain. “What then?”

Zarkon turned to his friend, his face tight. “We have no weapons to fight them. Perhaps they will take the treasures in other rooms and leave.”

“Mummies can sell for millions on the black market,” Alfor pressed in worry. “They _will_ look for him. And they will find us all.”

The prince’s eyes had not left Zarkon, instead tracking him with more awareness. He groaned lightly, his face twisting in confusion—at the sight of plastic, at the strange clear shields over their faces, and at the strange clothing—

Beneath the blanket, his dark fingers scraped against the stones, shaking.

_—Blood, so much blood—_

“ _Dwšmyn_ ,” he rasped in Middle Persian, his velvet voice still hoarse.

_Enemy. Evil-minded ones._

Beside him, one worried Allura turned to him, pulling up her face shield now that the quintessence had dried from him. “Ah,” she whispered, her sweet alto voice strangling, “um, it’s alright. We’re hidden.” She desperately raised a finger to her lips, in hopes he would understand the symbol and keep quiet.

The resurrected Prince Lotor turned bewildered eyes to her, only to pause in awe, his lips dropping open at the sight of her. As he came into himself, the flush of life expanded across him. His cheeks seemed to darken as if with a flush. “… _Shahdokht_?” he whispered.

_Princess?_

Her white curls hung in a frizz down her cheeks, tangled between her half-fallen bun and the strap of her face shield. “Please,” she begged in Standard. “Please stay calm. All will be well.”

Prince Lotor reached up, his muscles still twitching oddly on occasion, his golden vambrace catching the light of the torches His blue eyes brightened with tears as he dared to touch her warm cheek. “ _Dwšmyn_ ,” he pressed again, this time, his voice stronger, smoothing out.

He pulled away, the blanket unraveling around him as he moved. “ _Dwšmyn.”_ And then his blue eyes hardened, still bright with strange tears. He forced himself to sit up, his jeweled collar and golden bands clinking. He touched his chest, his face twisting in great pain.

The blanket fell from him as he shakily moved to stand, with Allura flailing slightly in a flush from a blue-kilted back-end suddenly close to her face.

Prince Lotor shakily began to walk for the first time in 2,300 years, reaching out to the stones. His white hair flickered down his back and shoulders, and he distantly blew a lock from out of his eyes. “Kova!” he called, his velvet voice raising, “Ko-va!”

“Oh god,” Alfor mourned. “We’re all going to die.”

“Shut up,” Zarkon hissed at him, then looked to the standing form of the prince, in wary anxiety.

Alfor hissed back at him, “He’s _shouting_ ; they’re going to hear him.”

Allura moved in a flurry to the prince, reaching for his hand, her heart pounding. “Please, please, we must stay quiet—”

The distressed Prince turned away in a flurry of white hair, back to the quintessence vat with a light in his eyes. “Kova.” He leaned over the walled edge, dunking his arms and shoulders back into the quintessence, and then his head as well, opening his eyes within the plasma, searching.

Allura squeaked, pressing her lips together in fright, for usually such exposure would maim a human.

The prince’s long fingers grabbed onto a hidden plate at the bottom of the vat, desperately pulling it up to reveal a hidden chamber beneath his own burial.

And floating within the quintessence was a little sarcophagus with the face of a black cat.

The prince grabbed onto it, raising it in his arms and cradling it as he raised back up from the quintessence, his white hair and temples glimmering with a glow as more reabsorbed into his skin, beading down his jaw and shoulders.

Outside the burial chamber, several boots stomped in. Sharp voices in a multitude of languages raised up in echoes.

Prince Lotor squeezed his eyes shut. He leaned around the little sarcophagus

_Those who enter will perish. Their souls will be damned, and their bodies will be eaten by the guardians of the dead._

Lotor’s white hair rose up in an invisible wind, gleaming with quintessence, and when he opened his eyes, the full of his sockets glowed a bright white with power.

And suddenly, there was a cry from the other side of the wall. Objects crashed to the floors.

The entire tomb shifted on its foundations, the floors outside the burial chamber raising up from the pressure of activated quintessence, expelling the robbers back to the entrance. Had any of them owned a quintessence scanner, they might have noticed a blue form in the shape of long-tailed cat, slipping through the crowds of the robbers running in panic.

The cries rose up as the humans ran, bearing mysterious claw marks and sharp bites from unseen fangs, their ears ringing with the sound of warning hisses.

Shots fired. More screams.

Within the burial chamber, the Prince Lotor’s face darkened in righteous pain. He murmured under his breath, indignant, then set one of his hands upon the stone wall of his coffin. A bright reverb snapped from him, and all the fires on the walls across the entire tomb flared to life, burning a bright white like a star.

Alfor, Allura, and Zarkon all hid their eyes, but on the other side of the wall, robbers stumbled into one another. The tomb floors shifted up again, until the last panicked robber ran for the safety of the desert, dropping a rusted, bejeweled sword at the feet of a hidden feline form.

And then the prince lost his glow entirely, sinking inward in exhaustion. His white hair slipped down his shoulders, tangling in to his jeweled collar. He still cradled the little cat sarcophagus to him as if it were glass, and he looked down at it with a pained face. “Ko-va?” he murmured. He shakily began to work at the corded tie holding the sarcophagus together.

The coffin opened up. Inside was a pure-white, fully furred cat. Its fur bore the same mutations as the prince did with his hair.

Prince Lotor pulled the cat from its sarcophagus, a fret in his brow. “Kova?”

The cat, although it appeared as if it were sleeping, did not move or awaken. Instead, it remained lifeless in Lotor’s arms. The prince ran his fingers gently down the feline’s head and back, flicking one of its ears. Like himself, it had been perfectly preserved.

But it was cold.

The prince’s eyes watered at the sight, and from his throat strangled out a noise of great fear. He lowered the cat into the quintessence, then lifted it, inspecting the water-logged cat anxiously.

A very hesitant Alfor leaned over to Zarkon and whispered, “What is he doing?”

Zarkon did not respond for a time.

Allura moved forward. “The blue man,” she called to the prince. “You were the blue man I saw, on the scanner. Was your cat like you? Did it…move on some field we cannot see with our eyes?”

Prince Lotor looked up at her, a haunted expression marring his features. He bit his lip, staring at her in confusion. He opened his mouth and spoke words, and they were broken and halted.

Zarkon’s eyes narrowed. “His syntax is strange, but I can catch his meaning. He says the cat still roams.”

Blue eyes turned to Zarkon. In that moment, for all the power imbued within him from the quintessence, the prince seemed fragile, as if his entire world were crumbling.

Allura turned back, grabbing for the quintessence scanner. “I can find your cat,” she called, voice straining. “I know how to find him.”

Zarkon hesitantly began to translate her statements into Persian. The prince listened anxiously, then responded helplessly in the Middle Persian he knew, “ _What language does the princess speak, father? I do not understand it. You sound strange as well._ ”

Though there were differences between Middle and modern Persian, Zarkon could catch his meaning, just as Alfor predicted. “ _Her language is called Standard_.” The man swallowed hard. “ _But I am not your father, and she is not a princess_.”

Prince Lotor’s brows knitted together. He pursed his lips, then gave him a hard look. “ _Drōg_ ,” he snapped lightly. _Lies._ “ _You are him. No other man bears his face, just as I would know the princess_.” And then his expression faltered. “ _Yes_?”

Words failed Zarkon. A noise escaped the back of his throat as his eyes misted.

Meanwhile, Allura had lifted the scanner, peering through the limestone of the tomb. “Well, in good news, it seems the prince has scared away those robbers,” she managed to say nervously. “Um, not that I entirely understand how. Quintessence can certainly affect things, but he seems to be channeling it at _will_ , and this is all rather a bit much for me.”

Alfor pulled off his face shield, looking haunted himself. “I agree. But how will you find his cat with that scanner?”

“I’m looking for the form of a moving cat,” she murmured. Her fingers still shook. “I saw our prince on this scanner before I knew it was him.”

“How is that possible?” Alfor asked.

Her voice raised incredulously. “How is _any_ of this possible? I don’t know—it would, ah, suggest that there is in fact some sort of consciousness that can be separated from one’s body. It’s all very strange, and I’m really just an engineer, not a metaphysical—”

And in that moment, she squeaked, her eyes lighting up. There on the scanner was a cat form, bounding through the treasure rooms, as if in search of something. “Ah, I found him. Kova!”

The prince tightened his arms around the cat’s form, apprehensive and hopeful. “Kova?”

Allura giggled, tears rising in her eyes. “Yes, I see him. There.” She awkwardly tried to hold the scanner in her hand while pointing at the screen with the other.

Prince Lotor stared at the device as if it were magic, but he seemed to recognize the shape moving upon it. “Kova?” he called, moving quickly to the device and Allura. He towered over her, and so he leaned down to speak to the scanner, blue eyes wide and watery. “ _Kova, return to me, please_.”

Allura pressed her lips together, then looked helplessly at Zarkon. “How do we tell him that his cat is not inside the scanner?”

Zarkon pulled off his gloves, looking overwhelmed once more and still teary eyed himself. He attempted to translate, “ _The princess holds a…seeing glass. The cat is not inside it, but beyond it_.”

And it was then that the cat’s spirit came bounding through the stones, merrily holding in its mouth the spirit of a mouse that had fallen into a puddle of quintessence in another room.

Kova’s spirit began to decohere the closer it pranced to Lotor and its own body. And then the fragments of itself slipped into the body of the white-furred cat.

And suddenly, warmth.

A heartbeat.

The prince cried out in relief, raising the cat to his cheek and rubbing its face against his own. The cat sleepily responded, opening bleary, yellow eyes. Its white tail swished.

Then it seemed to recognize Prince Lotor. It cried out in a happy meow, nuzzling him back and then madly grooming his temple with a hot sandpaper tongue, pushing back Lotor’s wild, white locks.

The prince’s face split in a happy, watery smile. His blue eyes shifted to Allura, and suddenly, there was not only curiosity but great admiration—and adoration.

* * *

The resurrected cat named Kova rested upon Prince Lotor’s broad shoulder as if he very much belonged there. His little white head peeked out from behind white locks, his nose twitching. He blended in well with Lotor’s white hair, and Allura suspected that in life, when they both bore dark hair, it was much of the same effect.

But she flushed, her eyes widening, when the prince approached her. His tall form encompassed her own, the gold upon him flashing in the torch light. Tears still shined in his eyes as he patted little Kova’s head. “ _You are the holder of great mysteries, as always_ ,” he babbled in Middle Persian, his blue eyes wide as he searched her face. “ _You see into the world between worlds with your box. You found Kova. Your hair is like mine, but your hair was once black. Were you dipped in the glowing waters as well_?”

On the other side of the room, Alfor and Zarkon were untying their plastic robes and pulling off their face masks and gloves. Alfor murmured to Zarkon, “What is the prince going on about?”

Zarkon watched in suspicion. “ _I’m not…sure_.”

Allura’s flush deepened as she backed away, untying her own plastic covering to reveal her modern clothes. “I wish I knew what you were saying,” she mourned lightly.

Prince Lotor leaned in, his aristocratic nose inches from her own. “ _Your intelligence is matched only by your beauty_ ,” he murmured, his velvet voice an awed lilt. “ _If only I knew your tongue, then I would ask you what I failed to ask in India when we were children. For you are the Princess Alaya, in every way_.”

“…Is he _flirting_ with my daughter?” Alfor whispered.

Zarkon looked away, an odd flush rising to his cheeks. He grumped. “Something like it.”

On the other side of the room, Allura searched Prince Lotor’s blue eyes, and asked curiously, “Alaya? Is that a name?”

The prince tilted his head, still entranced by her. “ _Alaya_ ,” he confirmed. Then he placed a large hand over his chest, where his scar disrupted the beauty of his skin. His voice caught in hope. “ _Lo-tor_.”

Her flush stretched up to the tips of her ears, but she did not move away, instead mesmerized by the gravity of the man. She raised her hand to her chest, mimicking his action. “My name is _Allura_.”

The name slipped from his lips hesitantly, as if he were unfamiliar with the sounds, which were European in origin. “…Allura?”

An earnest smile lit her eyes, in delight of the sound of her name coming from him. “Yes, that’s it.”

Prince Lotor leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and inspecting her face curiously. There was a flush on his own dark cheeks, in awe of her. “ _I would know you anywhere_.” A twitch of pain slipped through him, and he looked away, moving to pet little Kova’s head. “ _Or in any time_.”

That inspired Zarkon to look back over the prince in curiosity.

The prince’s eyes flickered to him, pleading. “ _Translate that I am indebted to the Princess Allura for helping me to recall Kova_?”

Zarkon paused, his face tightening as he sought to understand the prince. And then he grumped to Allura, “He says thanks for saving his cat. He is in your debt.”

Allura awkwardly began to dust her sleeve. “Oh, well, I didn’t do anything at all.”

Lotor could conclude her meaning by virtue of her body language. He stepped forward, impassioned, as he spoke again.

“You,” Zarkon tried to translate, stumbling a bit, “helped him find Kova when he was in great…sorrows?” His face twitched. “Ah, something about debts being…bad in Persia, but that he wouldn’t---mind…being indebted to you.” He turned around, waving his hand. “I’m not translating this. He’s flirting with you, that’s what it is.”

Allura brushed a lock of her hair behind her ears, looking skittish in a pleasantly delighted way. “Oh, well, um.” She looked up and smiled at the prince, slightly emboldened by their language barrier. “You’re very handsome yourself.”

Prince Lotor searched her face, not quite understanding her words, but he could capture that she was pleased and offering some kind of attention back. His lips split in delight, and his entire being seemed to glow happily. He turned to Zarkon, his eyes as bright as Kova’s, “ _Great father, I am in love once more with the Princess Alaya_.” He stumbled to correct himself, “Allura.” 

That did it. Zarkon face-faulted, caught in a mix of pure hilarity and irritation.

Alfor looked hesitant, narrowing his eyes, still caught in the memory of Prince Lotor’s strange powers and yet increasingly concerned by the flirtatious lines in the man’s body. He leaned to Zarkon, hissing, “Should I be worried about what he wants with my daughter? What will he do if I don’t agree to her becoming some harem girl or concubine for him? Will he strike us down?”

Zarkon cut in, speaking quickly to the prince in Persian, taking advantage of the prince’s perception that he was his father, “Allura is not to be treated as wares for a harem.”

The prince blinked, and then he pulled away, his white brows knitting together. His pleasant demeanor began to fall into distress, and he made a strangled noise in his throat. “ _Do you not know me? I_ —” His eyes narrowed in increasing inspection. “ _Even **you** followed the Egyptian ways. Fidelity to one, in the ways of Isis and Osiris_.” An earnest passion came over him. “ _I longed to follow such_.” 

The older man struggled to follow the prince’s words, but he eventually managed to say, voice halted with great pain, “I do not know how I could be your father or know you. For there is a great span of time between us.”

Prince Lotor’s expression fell slightly.

Alfor stepped forward, grabbing onto Zarkon’s arm. “You’re upsetting him, stop it,” he pleaded. And then he moved raising his hands, managing a weak smile. “We may have differences, and ah—significant legal problems—but we will help you however we can.”

The prince seemed to recognize him as well, his face weakly lighting up with a mild delight and then an increasing pain. He pulled the cat from his shoulder to pet it. “… _Shahpur Atharv?_ ” he greeted, his voice wavering. _Prince Atharv_? He then managed a bow of respect, his white hair slipping down his shoulders.

The level of familiarity with which the prince responded to any one of them left them all at a loss—grasping for something that was beyond them, and yet somehow innate within them.

“I am Alfor,” the white-haired man tried to greet him back. “I think I’m having a bit of shell-shock at the sight of you, but generally speaking, I’d like to think I’m amiable in most cases. Perhaps we can find ways to connect and…ah, get along?”

The foreign language upset the prince. He rose up, increasingly distressed with awareness. He declared, his velvet voice catching. “ _I fear I cannot understand you. For all that you have in common with them, you are not Prince Atharv of the Pauravas, and she is not Alaya, and my father is not Zargun of Persia. At least, not entirely. I see it now._ ”

Allura’s voice raised hesitantly. “Pauravas? He speaks of our homeland.”

“Yes,” Alfor said, halted. “Our friend here might have known of the King Purushotama before the region fell to the Greeks.”

It struck them all, including Lotor himself, just how vast the chasm of time was between them. 

Lotor held his cat more closely, looking unsteady suddenly. With his free hand, he raised his palm, and suddenly the trick door pulsed with an energy, and it swept back. The prince walked past them all, distressed, his handsome face tightening in great pain.

“ _All things are circular_ ,” he desperately spoke to himself in Middle Persian, then switched to the lilt of Late Egyptian, his mother’s tongue, voice growing halted. “ _Souls do not change but are transformed. It must be them. No matter the time that has passed—it must be them._ ”

From his own wanderings in the dark, he knew significant time had passed. He had read every inscription on every wall—had known their meanings but had still carried hope for what they meant.

Now, the Prince Lotor stood in the antechamber with his life’s story, breath hitching hard. He ran his free fingers down the paintings his parents had drawn for him, which included images of himself walking through the Egyptian Field of Reeds, mixed with the Persian Heaven of Eternal Light, with Ahura Mazda shining down upon him. His eyes began to mist, for a multitude of reasons. He leaned his forehead against the drawings, in want for the love of his parents. In mourning for the lies that were not real.

As with all Egyptian tombs, the sacred images were said to hold great power, and that drawing them into existence would in fact bring about such an afterlife. His parents desired that his soul reach the highest places of favor in the heavens, with depictions of his soul being weighed as blameless.

But he was not in the highest of heavens.

His spirit had wandered the tomb as a prisoner of it, having awakened to the sounds of scraping and drills in the far distance. He had walked with only Kova as his companion in a dark and cold world, without the beauty promised to him by the priests and the Magi.

The sight of the physical presence of the Princess Alaya, the Prince Atharv, and his father Zargun had bolstered his spirit and hopes—that they had come from high places to lift him from the waters and bring him home to the heavens.

But it seemed that they were living souls as he was now. And even more, that they did not know themselves as he knew them.

Lotor pulled away, his face breaking that no god had collected him, and that there were no happy reconciliations in an afterlife. He moved to sit upon the floor, holding his cat who snoozed obliviously in his arms. The prince’s eyes watered hard, and when he blinked, tears slipped down his dark cheeks in confusion.

The gods had abandoned him.

His own family did not know him.

His resurrection was corrupted, for he was the _Akh_ —the transformed soul—still wandering on the mortal plane without access to any heaven or hell. But nothing made sense. His mother and father had perfectly preserved his body. They’d given him the sacred inscriptions for entry to the heavens. They had built him a tomb of great honor! They had promised to avenge his death!

_Why had he not moved on? Why did his own friends and family not recognize him?_

And what was this strange language called Standard? 

The prince leaned his watery cheek against the head of his cat, which was the only tether of life he had to his past. But even then, he recalled that Kova in life had black fur—and that even he himself had admired his own black locks in many reflective surfaces.

Everything was different, and wrong.

* * *

Zarkon hesitantly exited the burial chamber first, daring to trail after the prince. His dark eyes narrowed upon him in worry. “Prince Lotor?”

The younger man sat cross-legged on the floor of the antechamber, staring in a tearful daze at the inscriptions from his parents, among them the note from his father that he did not believe in salvation but that he hoped his son would carry on his memory. “ _Damned_ ,” he mourned in Middle Persian. “ _We are all damned and failed judgment. For you do not remember me or yourself. And I am in an imperfect body.”_

With his free hand, he touched his chest, which bore a scar from his own murder—a scar that the Egyptian priests and Magi said would not exist in the heavens, for bodies were perfected in the afterlife, shining in gold. But here, his own uncle’s violence was permanently emblazoned upon his chest—an ugly disruption of his image.

He swallowed hard, his lips trembling. “ _Baba_ ,” he asked. “ _Why has this happened? What have I done? I do not understand. **Why**_?”

Zarkon recognized the term _baba_. He appeared stricken by it, and when he stared at the prince’s distressed face, he felt a vision—a déjà vu of a small child crying for his father, raising up little arms from a tiny, pure-white tunic.

.

“ _Baba—baba—_ ”

.

He swallowed hard. “I am suspicious of gods and magic, so I cannot offer you comfort in that way,” he confessed. “But though I’ve never had a son, since entering your tomb, I see…visions. Things I have not done or experienced in my lifetime.”

The prince hung on his words, desperately attempting to bridge gaps in his understanding of modern Persian. His eyes were wide with cautious hope.

Zarkon pressed his lips together, then added, voice halted, “I have always been drawn to Egypt. And to this valley, feeling that something was here that I needed to…uncover. Alfor, as well, has felt the same.” Genuine tears rose to his eyes. “I fear what it means. But I had a vision of your death. I was—I was holding you in my arms and mourning you.” His breath caught. “Your blood was on my hands from holding you.” 

Prince Lotor blinked, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He gently set down Kova, then moved to stand, his pleated kilt’s golden threads catching the lights. His voice broke. “Baba.” He reached out.

Zarkon did not resist him.

The prince wrapped his arms around the man, a noise of sorrow escaping him, his eyes squeezing shut as he leaned against the strong shoulder of his father reborn, inhaling shakily a scent he knew from 2,300 years ago. His legs weakened, in hope that somehow the universe had not entirely abandoned him. That his family had not abandoned him.

Tears slid from his cheeks onto the cotton of Zarkon’s shirt, and the older man hesitantly wrapped his arms around the prince. His soul, which had yearned for a child for 2,000 years, suddenly felt its missing piece near. Zarkon’s aged face broke, and he raised a hand to Lotor’s white hair, stroking it in awe that somehow—on the deepest of levels, in his heart of hearts, he knew this boy as his son.

* * *

_“Beloved,” a soft, female voice murmured in his ear. “What say you to a child?”_

_Zargun turned his neck to her, searching her gold eyes and the dark of her hair. They were laying on a bed far away from the increasing war of conquest from his uncle, Artaxerxes III of Persia—against her father, Nectanabo II of Egypt._

_“A child?” he whispered._

_She grabbed for his hand, gently placing his fingers over her lower abdomen. She smiled, as brightly as the sparkle of sun upon the river Nile._

_“He will bring us peace,” she whispered in joy. Tears rose to her eyes. “A son of Pharaoh, with the blood of your Shahs.”_

* * *

The tomb of Prince Lotor was no longer an organized set of rooms but a ransacked burial. A teary-eyed prince walked in a daze, staring in hopeless awe at the damage the robbers had done in so little time. He reached out listlessly to touch the wall where many of his jeweled collars had once hung—some of them having been beaded together by his own mother’s hand. And his swords—the ones his father had gifted him for every one of his birthdays—most were gone.

Zarkon, meanwhile, was collecting the remaining treasures to take them with the prince. Alfor and Allura had joined in, respectfully lowering what they could into crates, to hide in the truck bed of Red Lion beneath tarps and other archaeology equipment.

“ _We cannot take it all_ ,” Zarkon warned softly.

Prince Lotor barely heard him, making a soft noise as he moved to stand before a golden chariot. _“I do not understand_ ,” he retorted, voice halted with despondency, “ _how any of my belongings would fit in the belly of a lion._ ”

“ _It’s a larger chariot, not a living beast_.” A mild amusement worked into Zarkon’s exhausted, worried tone. “ _You will see soon_.”

Dark fingers slipped along the sloping edge of a chariot wheel. “ _Will this fit_?”

“ _No._ ”

The prince turned to him, his gold earrings flashed in the torchlight within his long, white locks. He pouted, his eyes still misted. “ _What will happen to it_?”

On the far side of the room, Alfor raised up from one of the crates, rubbing his aching back from lowering an ancient Senet game board. “What does the prince say?”

Zarkon turned to him, switching to Standard. “He worries for the belongings that won’t fit in the truck.”

Alfor managed a nervous laugh. “Well, at this rate, we’re stealing from the Egyptian government to remove anything from this tomb. Anything that remains will have to be sent to the Ministry of State for Antiquities. And, ah, we will have to tell them that the tomb was likely ransacked before we opened it.”

From a side room peeked out the head of Allura, her white curls streaming down her cheeks in a sweaty straggle. “How can we be stealing,” she retorted lightly, “when these are entirely the prince’s things?” By her feet, a curious Kova purred and rubbed against her leg. She leaned down to give the cat a loving pat. “Yes, all of these beautiful things. Even you, little one.”

The cat gave a delighted purr, leaning into her touch, starved of affection and touch.

“Yes, but keep in mind that there’s only so much that we can smuggle on our plane,” Alfor said, voice straining in a hilarity. “We cannot afford to raise attention to ourselves. Unless our friend here knows how to use quintessence to teleport things to Zarkon’s estate.”

It had been in the wake of Prince Lotor’s tears and clinging to Zarkon that all had unanimously decided he best belonged under the watchful eye of the older man—and that Zarkon’s isolated estate in the mountains of Iran would be a safe place to hide a resurrected prince from the Achaemenid Empire until he could pass as any modern man.

The prince glanced over at Alfor in curiosity, then turned to Zarkon in a silent plea for a translation. The man—now something of an impromptu father—tiredly obliged, but stumbled in trying to explain planes and teleportation.

Lotor tilted his head, his blue, bloodshot eyes narrowing in concentration. “ _I do not understand_.”

Zarkon turned to Alfor and gave him a deadpan of a look. “No teleportation.”

Alfor sighed, his shoulders bowing in. “Well, considering everything, I figured it a possibility. Resurrected dead men, ghost cats, energy manipulation of some kind—it’s not so far a request now.”

Allura stumbled in, setting down another crate of golden objects. She breathed out heavily, then stood and wiped her forehead of sweat. The temperature of the desert was beginning to rise as the impending morning loomed closer. “I believe that’s all the small things we can take from the second antechamber. Though father, I do think there are limits to quintessence. It’s merely an energy source, like any other.”

There was a pause, and the prince glanced over her, then down at the box. He moved to her, leaning down to grab a golden object—a fan, inlaid with many precious stones and designs. He ran his fingers over the design, then managed a weak smile and turned it around, gently fanning Allura.

The woman giggled, her white brows knitting together as she leaned back against an engraved wall, her half-fallen bun a halo around her. “Ah.” She closed her eyes in relief, her full lips stretching. She sighed with delight of the wind. “The prince is kind.”

His eyes softened for her, despite not knowing her words. He murmured, his velvet voice still halted with emotion, “ _Whatever life I face upon exiting this tomb, its hardships are softened by your presence_.”

Zarkon paused in raising up a crate, pressing his lips together to avoid rolling his eyes.

Allura turned to Zarkon, begging, “What does he say now?”

Alfor unraveled a scroll, hiding his face within the text, caught between a laugh and a groan. “I have my suspicions, daughter.”

“Still flirting,” Zarkon grumped in confirmation. He then added, switching to Persian, “ _You dishonor her by flirting without approval before her father_.”

The prince looked over at Zarkon with a quizzical brow, still fanning Allura with the riches of ancient kings. “ _The princess is an agent of her own body. I offer only honors upon her, which she herself does not reject.”_

There was a short pause. Zarkon demanded, voice straining, “ _It is uncomfortable for both Alfor and myself to hear you flirt with her._ ”

“ _Why_?” Lotor demanded curiously, now perceiving yet another strange chasm between his world and theirs. “ _Shapur Atharv celebrated Gandharva marriages—love of free will_.” A genuine confusion overcome him. “ _Does such not still exist_?”

Alfor set down the scroll, his eyes widening at the sound of _Gandharva_.

Zarkon hesitated, then said, “ _Times have changed, in ways_.”

“Is he talking about marrying Allura?” Alfor pressed, his voice strangling. His face twitched in a great hilarity. “He’s known her for all of a few hours. Allura dear, you’ll break his heart with your staunch sentiments against marriage.”

Allura opened her eyes, searching the face of the handsome prince. Her face flushed. She knew what a Gandharva marriage was. She inhaled, her eyes dilating slightly with even the scent of Prince Lotor, which wafted to her beneath the lingering metallic scent he bore from the quintessence. Even being in his proximity inspired a deep yearning in her soul. Her voice lifted up in an airy delight. “I’m not against a man who will fan me like this.”

The prince smiled brightly.

Zarkon and Alfor looked at each other.

And it was deep within the second antechamber that there were images of a young Prince Lotor standing beside his parents, reaching out to a young, laughing Indian princess with long curly hair, while their parents exchanged gifts of peace and friendship.

Zarkon dared to murmur to Alfor, “I…suspect I might not be the only one with a connection to this tomb.”

But instead of looking frightened or upset, there was an increasing sense of awe within Alfor. He stared at the Prince Lotor, searching him. His white brows knitting together, and then he laughed. It was a merry bell of a sound, mixed with some kind of teary awe. “Well, then, old boy. Perhaps we might yet live our dreams—you, having a son, and me, seeing our families united together. Though this is not at all how I expected it to go.”

And upon the tomb floors, a little white cat climbed into one of the crates, only to make a strangled noise as it fell into a golden bowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! So this wildly outrageous and niche AU continues, haha. Thank you for indulging this story idea ;asdjfas 
> 
> A plot note that I’m not a linguistic expert on the differences between Middle Persian and Modern Persian—from what I could tell, there has been a lot change, but also several things have stayed the same, in comparing them side to side. So this story assumes that Zarkon and Lotor will have a little difficulty understanding each other at times, but at least for plot device, that they can also understand quite a bit. 
> 
> Other plot notes are the fun I had realizing that Zargun is a Persian word meaning "golden," and it delighted me to no end that there was potentially a halfway similar analog to the canon name of "Zarkon" that I could use in a human setting, and that also might have some personal meaning for the character yet. (I felt like Zarkon always reminded me a bit of Sargon of Akkad, but I didn’t want to conflate the two, haha, so I was glad to find another word and one that was a nod to human Zarkon being Persian as well!) I chose the name "Alaya" for Allura's past life because of the similar sounds but also because the name involves spiritual ascendency meanings across several cultures. Finding an Indian analog for "Alfor" was a little more difficult, but I chose "Atharv" because of its associations with "knowledge" and spirituality as well. I guess the assumption is that world events have resulted in the altering of their names over the course of thousands of years, lol. 
> 
> Real life continues to be a downer right now, with all the heartache in the world and renewed quarantine measures where I live. So I hope you all are doing okay and that this story finds you well. While I do write review replies, if you ever need some additional lotura interaction, I do have a [lil Lotura blog on tumblr](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/), where I occasionally post story-status updates and other things! 
> 
> Please review with your thoughts, constructive criticisms, or ideas/requests! I’d really appreciate it! Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time! Evie, deathwardplots, lilithqueen, LunarMagnolia, Geeeny, NickyADon, Wallflwr97, MystiTrinqua, and Unicornsanddragons! 
> 
> In the past, I’ve used the author’s notes or tumblr to post individual review replies, but I’ve learned that AO3 comment replies actually send the reviewer an email with my response! So since that seems much more expedient, I’ve moved to that process. If for some reason you didn’t get an email with my review reply, you can access it in the comments section of the previous chapter! Thanks again! 
> 
> Now that main-AR has been updated, I can get back to working on side projects. So this fringe AU continues with more shenanigans! I hope you enjoy!

Soon, the strange being known as Prince Lotor stood before his own tomb, staring up at it in awe. In his large hands, he held his own death mask, which he’d pulled from the vat of quintessence in sentimental emotion. Its gold was as bright as the day it had been forged—bearing the promise of the ancient priests, that bodies of gold were everlasting. But he marveled that his own skin was so terribly human yet, and that the outside of his tomb had been covered in massive dunes of sand.

He could see the truth clearly now…

He’d been utterly forgotten and insignificant in the course of time, where it appeared that the names of Zargun I of Persia and Princess Haggar of the 30th Dynasty of Egypt had been as forgotten as his own—stricken from most records by the family that despised the union, and then overwritten again by the conquerors who raised their swords against both Persia and Egypt alike.

Lotor tightened his grasp upon the death mask, feeling particularly small in the face of time. The rising sun chilled his skin. “ _How did you even find me_?” he asked Zarkon, voice halted, “ _if truly 2,300 years have passed as you indicate_?” He’d been paying attention to Zarkon’s own way of speaking Persian and appeared to be accepting its differences and assimilating them into his own speech, but in that moment, he clung hard to the comfort that Persian was an enduring language.

Beside him, Zarkon stood tall, still wiping sweat from his dark brow. The Red Lion truck had been fully loaded, with the prince’s precious belongings hidden beneath equipment and tarps. “ _Alfor is rich, from a family with access to many treasures from ancient India. Among the archives, there was a—a scroll, from an old prince of India, who mourned the murder of someone he called the last true prince of Egypt_.” Zarkon’s throat tightened. “ _It suggested a missing family lineage in known history. This Indian prince had helped bury an Egyptian who might have become Pharaoh, had Egypt not fallen again_ _to Persia, and then to the Macedonians and Greeks_.”

“ _The Indian prince’s name_?”

“ _Atharv._ ”

Lotor’s face broke hard. He looked down at his death mask, his eyes misting. For a time, he could not speak. “ _And no other records of my parents? Zargun I of Arsames, the to-be Emperor of Persia who stepped down in love for Egypt? My mother, Princess Haggar, of Pharaoh Nectanebo II_?”

Zarkon hesitated. “ _The Pharaoh named Nectanebo II was not said to have any children, besides an unproven conspiracy theory that he fathered a man named Alexander III of Macedon_.”

The prince looked stricken. “ _I recognize that name, for he was a great warrior. My uncle feared him, and—_ ” his white brows knitted together—“ _believed I was in conspiracy with him to undermine the Persian Empire._ ”

“ _Was it true_?”

Lotor looked away, a strange expression on his face. _“I desired that Egypt exist independently, as a ruling sister nation beside Persia. I accepted aid from some Greek city-states to raise Egypt’s defenses. But then the Macedonian King invaded. My uncle—_ ” His throat tightened.

History told the tale.

His hand rose to the scar upon his chest, his breath hitching. His expression twisted in distress again, and his velvet voice broke. “ _He killed them as well, I am certain of it. Or had them assassinated. Why else would no one remember my parents or me_.”

Zarkon gently held out his hand.

The prince swallowed hard, then grabbed for it. A living heat emanated from him, as did a great anxiety. He appeared haunted. “ _I brought ruin to both lands. I deserved to wander in eternity_.” His eyes watered once more. “ _No one desired to remember me, for I was my father’s greatest shame_.”

He pulled away from Zarkon, greatly upset.

The older man’s face tightened in pain. “ _That is not what happened_ ,” he said suddenly, his voice rising in a sharp whip of impassioned Persian. “ _I do not understand Egyptian as well as Alfor, but even I can see that your mother and father loved you. This tomb was their song to you. And I—I would not have been **driven across the earth** to find you if I despised you_.”

Lotor’s blue eyes slid to his, bright with tears as the sun rose behind him. “ _Perhaps you simply do not yet recall my failures. All of my parents’ paintings were lies to cover up their shame_.”

And the fallen prince turned away, his bare feet trudging into the sand as he began to pull off his golden vambraces, increasingly upset. The sight of gold and honors upon him left him in a strange mood, such that he then removed his earrings and the bands of gold upon his arms, tossing them to the sand until he stood unadorned save for his royal kilt, staring out at a vast wasteland that had been conquered and conquered again, its native Pharaohs crushed under the heel of foreigners.

Zarkon moved forward, sighing as he leaned down to pick up the vambraces and jewelry pieces that were not only priceless but also irreplaceable belongings that he knew the prince would regret losing. “ _I don’t know your history_ ,” he admitted, “ _but I do know that Darius III was defeated in dishonor, and Alexander III was known for vicious tactics_.”

The prince remained silent.

“ _There **is** honor,”_ Zarkon pressed, voice straining, “ _in desiring peace between empires. This tomb sings your praises—that you were the hope of their world. The scroll of Alfor’s—from the Indian prince living just outside of Persian control—it **mourned** you. If I knew nothing else about you, that is all I would need.” _

Prince Lotor chilled.

Zarkon stepped forward, grabbing onto the prince’s limp hand and gently setting his earrings in his palm. “ _Any man would have been proud to have you as a son_.”

Lotor’s lips pressed together, his eyes misty. He swallowed hard. Bright tears slipped down his dark cheeks. The wind caught his white hair. “ _But I failed. Egypt and Persia both fell, and I assisted in weakening them against greater enemies_.”

.

 _“—My son,” cried Zargun, his aged face pulling hard as he leaned his cheek against Prince Lotor’s head, cradling his dead body. He planted a large, trembling hand over his son’s wound, which no longer ran with flesh blood. “My **son** —_”

.

Zarkon’s breath hitched. He pulled away from the living form of his dead son, suddenly feeling rage against a brother he did not have. “ _No_ ,” he said suddenly. He looked down at himself—at his own hands—and he looked up, his eyes watering. “ _It was **your death** that weakened the nations_.”

And there, in the back of his mind, like a lingering dream, Zarkon felt the pounding of hooves and the cries of many men, the stomping of elephants—

.

_Stripped of all royal titles, he fell to his knees, dropping his sword in resigned acceptance. The Macedonians were thundering forward in flashes of metal. Zargun closed his exhausted, worn eyes, and he gave himself over to death, longing to reunite with his family—_

_._

The Prince Lotor stared at Zarkon, seeing great sorrow and loss within his eyes. He then looked down at the golden earrings in his palm, which his parents had no doubt placed upon him in death. He clenched his fingers around them, great emotion overcoming him. “ _How can I bring you honor? I’ve no armies to command in your name or in the name of my mother. I own little. I am lost in the very history that informs you_.”

Zarkon raised his hand, cupping his son’s cheek. In that moment, he could not separate himself from the man in his memories who wore the armor of empires. His voice caught. “ _I want you to **live**_.”

The son blinked, his eyes vulnerable and innocent.

And Lotor managed a tight nod, his tears slipping against his father’s fingers.

* * *

Allura Singh sat in the back seat of the Red Lion’s cab, a little white cat snoozing away on her lap while she distantly stroked its fur. “Do you feel it as well?” she murmured to her father, her brows knitting together. “A strange sort of…emotion regarding the Prince Lotor?”

“Well,” Alfor said merrily, starting up the truck, “I’m not making cow eyes at him as you do—”

—Allura face-faulted—

“—But I do feel a sense of fondness for the boy, as if he’s been Zarkon’s son our entire lives.”

She whined. “I’m not in love, father. I’m far too old for the ‘love-at-first-sight’ business. I just…feel a sense of connection with him. As if I knew him. And I can’t grasp why this is.”

The father hummed, turning on the air conditioner. “Oh, I’m likely to wake up tomorrow in a shell-shocked fit, but I do believe Zarkon when he says he sees visions of himself in a past world. It all makes sense in the moment. Our entire journey here, ever since I found that crazy scroll—” He leaned his head back against the head rest of his seat, closing exhausted eyes as he pulled on sunglasses. He managed a tired smile. “I might be able to rest, for the first time in years.” He sighed. “In ways. I still do not know how to fake papers for an Egyptian prince of Persia.”

Allura quieted, still petting the strange 2,300-year-old cat in a daze. Even that felt oddly familiar to her, with her soul rising in her chest in delight of the action. Tears rose to her eyes, for she felt such a depth of emotion for the cat in her lap that it stole her breath.

The cat, Kova, purred in his sleep, his long tail swishing against her leg.

This had happened before.

She froze in petting him, looking up with goose-bumps rising on her skin. But in doing so, she saw Zarkon approaching the truck with the Prince Lotor in tow. The prince now carried his jewelry and death mask in his hand, looking oddly naked without the glimmer of gold, his eyes red-rimmed once more from tears. He paused before the great truck, inspecting it with a clinical curiosity.

Zarkon continued to speak in a gentle lilt of Persian, his voice an echo even within the cab.

Allura found herself staring at the prince’s chest, where the scar of his murder now stood out sharply against his skin without jewelry or darkness to hide it. A chill worked through her again, and she looked away, her breath catching oddly.

The scar was still reddened and raised in the light, as if it were freshly healed. Its jagged edges, and the slight starburst scars around his ribs, suggested that Prince Lotor had been stabbed multiple times.

Meanwhile, the prince gingerly opened a truck door, his white brows knitted together in concentration as he mimicked Zarkon’s actions, with Zarkon reassuring him in Persian that all was well. In opening the door, he gazed upon Allura, and she gazed upon him, both of their eyes wide and innocent.

There was an awareness in Lotor’s eyes now—something that dampened the light in him. But he still managed a weak smile, his velvet voice raising up as he leaned against the step platform into the truck. He spoke a lilt of a few sentences.

In the front of the cab, Zarkon scooted in, sighing as he shook sand from his pant legs. “He says the princess Alaya once prophesized that carts would be horseless and would move by…unknown winds. He says the princess saw into the future, and that this must be her invention.”

Allura flushed prettily, moving to pet the snoozing Kova. “Well…I did build this truck by hand.”

Zarkon translated.

The prince’s eyes lit up in awe and admiration, and he climbed in with more trust than before, mimicking how she sat. He brought with him his musky scent and the flicker of white hair and sand. In sitting beside her, he still towered over her. “Vimana,” he breathed in delight.

She felt small against him—and also felt the great weight of the air around him. But oddly, she felt his awe for her as well.

That somehow, this 2,300-year-old prince was far more impressed by her capabilities than he was his own.

“Vimana?” she echoed lightly. “From the _Ramayana_ and other texts?”

He seemed to know those words, and he smiled handsomely, beginning to babble.

Zarkon glanced over his shoulder. “He is speaking of devices for flight and devices to—move quickly.” His face twisted with the attempts to translate. “The Princess Alaya desired a chariot of the gods, and now he sees she has accomplished it.”

And then Prince Lotor patted the seat of the Red Lion affectionately, his eyes widening only when Alfor stepped on the gas and set him back in his seat in a flare of white hair and a stiffening of his limbs.

Allura could not help her giggle.

She held out her hand.

The prince grabbed on instinctively, his long, warm fingers wrapping around hers in a mix of fear and elation over her god-chariot named Red Lion.

And they drew the prince from not only out of his tomb but also from out of the sands of the desert, leaving the dunes behind in a cloud dust, with Lotor’s priceless belongings clanking in the back of the truck bed. Only after his initial awe with the power of the vehicle did the prince then realize that the air was cool inside the cab, and he swatted at it curiously like a cat, babbling many questions.

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” Allura mourned, still giggling at the prince’s curiosity of all things, including the window button. “Zarkon, please help me.”

Up in the front, Zarkon waved a hand in exhaustion. “He is asking too many things at once. Just know he is impressed.” And then he switched to Persian, reminding Lotor, “ _Allura cannot understand you_.”

And for the first time since Lotor realized the great chasm between himself and the new world, Lotor’s expression grew thoughtful, and he lilted to Zarkon, “ _Then I shall learn this new language you call Standard. As part of learning to...live again_.”

“Ah, yes,” Alfor cut in cheerily, speeding along. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying either, old boy, but I do find this to have a family-road-trip feel to it. All we’re missing is Honerva. Does this prince imprinting on you, Zarkon, make Honerva his new mother as well?”

And Zarkon’s scarred lips tightened. “I do not know if she carries the same…visions as I do. Lotor mentions his mother’s name as something else entirely. An Egyptian name.”

Alfor turned to look at him briefly. “Have you called Honerva yet?”

“…Not yet.”

The other father sputtered. “If you have it your way, then you’ll wait to explain until the moment you have this poor fellow standing on your doorstep like a homeless child. But Honerva—she doesn’t like to be surprised.”

“I am aware,” Zarkon deadpanned.

“Had you considered adopting 2,300-year-olds?” Alfor teased merrily. “Maybe then she would expect this.”

Zarkon turned his neck and glared at him, narrowing dark eyes. “Do not make light of this. How am I to explain the Prince Lotor to her? She may dislike surprises, but she will not believe me until she sees him.”

And as it happened, in the backseat, one prince was gingerly petting the little white cat in Allura’s lap, his death mask and various pieces of jewelry glittering on the bench seat and on the truck’s floor. He looked at Allura, his watery, bloodshot eyes searching her face. “ _Dorood_ ,” he whispered.

There were only inches between them.

Allura suddenly felt a déjà vu, her mind flashing to sitting atop a stone wall, her pink skirts fluttering in the wind as a man leaned his hand against the wall, looking up at her in awe, his eyes blue as the sky and long hair as dark as night.

She felt a fluttering deep in her stomach, and she whispered back to him, without consulting Zarkon for translation, “Dorood.”

_Hello._

Those familiar blue eyes, as sad as they were, suddenly crinkled in delight.

* * *

Of all the things that Prince Lotor expected, seeing a collection of modern buildings with a _Pizza Hut_ and a _KFC_ sign just outside the Pyramids of Giza was not one of them. His face twisted curiously, and he pushed the buttons on the door in search of the window one. The glass began to lower due to mechanisms in the door he did not understand, but trusted by virtue that it was all built by Allura. Hot wind threaded through his white locks as he narrowed his eyes. “ _What is this? These strange symbols, and_ —” he delicately lifted his aristocratic nose—“ _the smell of baked foods. Bread and meats_.”

“What does our friend say now?” Alfor murmured to Zarkon.

“I cannot tell,” Zarkon deadpanned lightly, “if he is offended by the Pizza Hut or entranced by it.”

Alfor laughed. “Ah, what an understandable dilemma. Is our friend hungry? None of us have eaten since last night.”

Zarkon’s aged face twisted. “Alfor, no. Not Pizza Hut. If we must eat, then let us consider finer places with more familiar cuisines, such as the restaurant El-Dar Darak, or Bab El-Sharq. We are no longer children.”

“Yes, we are,” Alfor disagreed merrily, turning into the complex. “My stomach demands a veggie pizza. And you, my friend—I’m sure they have a meat combo for your tastes. Would you ask our royal companion if he would like to try some new cuisine? I’m afraid we’ll be trading gold for plastic and Styrofoam, though.”

Lotor turned to Allura. “Pizza?” he asked curiously, hearing the word repeated several times.

The woman bit her lip, then mimed putting food in her mouth.

His white brows knitted together, and he ran a hand across his bare stomach in want. “Ah.” And then he scooted up on the seat, grabbing for Zarkon’s chair to pull himself forward. His white hair slipped down his bare shoulder. “ _Pedar_ , pizza?” There was a happy pout in his voice. “ _Do you hunger as I do? What is this pizza_?”

Zarkon sighed, not responding immediately.

A noise escaped the prince’s throat. “ _I offer you my gold in exchange for food and drink_ ,” he begged. “ _A feast to satisfy our stomachs. I can smell it on the air now, and much time has passed since I ate last_.”

The father moaned, “ _Pizza is a messy food that you eat with your hands_.”

Lotor scooted closer, his handsome face pulling in a plea. “ _It does not matter to me. I eat anything_.”

Zarkon turned to give him a look. “ _You are not in a seatbelt_.”

The prince’s eyes widened innocently. “ _I know not what that is. I am more interested in pizza_.”

“Ah,” Alfor said. “I keep hearing the word pizza from this poor boy’s mouth. Yes, pizza!” He slowed the red truck as they neared the building, pulling off to the side. “But, ah, curbside pick-up it is. I don’t believe Lotor even has shoes yet, does he?”

Allura spoke up, in a miserable merriment. “Not unless you consider the sandals of gold in one of the back crates.”

Zarkon made a strangled noise, turning a bit in his seat to gently push back Lotor. “Allura,” he begged, “for the love of—help him to put on a seatbelt.”

She sputtered, her eyes widening. “I tried earlier when I put on my own, but he wouldn’t have it.”

“It’s not a matter of opinion,” Zarkon retorted, voice sharpening. “We could crash.”

“We’re crawling along right now,” Alfor deadpanned.

“The principle remains,” Zarkon said with a huff. “ _Lotor, sit back and pull on the safety belt as you see Allura has done. Alfor will obtain food for us_.”

The prince paused, then set back, an anxious look upon him. “ _Allura’s chariot will not harm me_.” But he grabbed onto the seatbelt and held it in mild confusion, glancing over at Allura. He pulled the strap over himself, inspecting the latch before accomplishing the satisfying click.

Allura smiled at him brightly.

Lotor managed a weak smile in return, still looking apprehensive. “Pizza?”

“Pizza,” Alfor confirmed, pulling up to the menu.

Zarkon looked at the fast-food menu, his scarred lips pulling in a tight line. “Of all things in this world. You want to take a prince to Pizza Hut as his first modern experience, when this land offers so much.”

Allura giggled at that, sitting back in her seat and petting a still-snoozing Kova. “Ah, well actually, this car was his first modern experience, and he’s doing quite well with it.”

“Ask him if he eats meat or would prefer vegetables only,” Alfor begged.

Zarkon grumped, “ _Meat or vegetable pizza_?”

The prince gave him a bewildered look, then declared, “ _Whatever the Princess Allura eats, I shall eat_.”

“…Vegetable it is.”

* * *

Soon, Prince Lotor of Egypt and Persia found himself eating in delight out of a cardboard box, lifting yet another piece of veggie pizza to his mouth and humming happily as he munched. To his side, little Kova had awakened, sniffing curiously around his hands. The prince lowered the piece of pizza in offering to Kova, and the cat tentatively snapped its jaws around a tiny piece. Its white ears flicked happily as it crunched down on bread and cheese alongside Lotor.

Allura pressed her lips together in amusement and consternation, watching while the prince gave an offering of all things to his cat, who meowed happily.

As the truck sped onward to the hotel, Lotor stared out the window in a mix of great awe—that so much had changed in 2,300 years, and yet so much hadn’t. He did not recognize the buildings or the glowing signs, but he did recognize the skyline.

.

_“Great father,” he’d begged, pulling on the hem of his father’s tunic, “how long will the pyramids last if they are already so old?”_

_There’d been a pause, then a movement. Strong hands wrapped around his middle and lifted him up into a powerful arms. Lotor had giggled, cooing at the raise in height. Like this, he could see over the edge of the boat, to witness the pyramids as they passed by._

_“My precious son,” declared Zargun, nuzzling his nose against the prince’s lock of Lotor’s dark hair. “The pyramids are eternal. These valleys and deserts shall change in time, with floods and droughts and new homes. But some things do not change.”_

_Lotor had turned to the smooth face of his father, curious of the thick beard on his face. He gently grabbed and pulled on it, and Zargun sputtered. “What else is eternal, father? Are we like the pyramids?”_

_The father gently pulled his hand away from his beard, caught between a laugh and a strangled noise. “My son. Our bodies are not eternal, but my love for you is.”_

_He blinked in confusion. “I do not understand.”_

_Zargun gently readjusted him in his arms. “It means, little one, that just as these pyramids you see before you—do you see how strong they stand? How stark they are against the horizon of all other things?”_

_“Yes, father.”_

_He turned to face Lotor, his dark eyes softened. He reached up and stroked Lotor’s face. “I do not know the time we have together in this world. But my love for you and your mother is like the pyramids. Eternal.”_

.

The prince lowered his piece of pizza, his throat tightening up hard. Kova raised his paws on Lotor’s thigh, squirming to eat another piece.

Lotor’s eyes flicked from the pyramids in the distance to the seat before him, where he could see the dark salt-and-pepper hair of Zarkon Dalir. And despite not knowing this version of his father—despite all that had changed in 2,300 years—he could see the soul of his father within him, just as he saw the soul of Alaya in Allura and Atharv in Alfor.

He looked down at his piece of pizza and felt his heart swell in strange ways. He moved to touch the hem of his dark blue kilt, which he knew now was exceptionally alien to the people in the modern world. It seemed much of what he had believed to be eternal was not.

But his father had not lied.

Love was eternal.

2,300 years, and his people still loved him, just as the pyramids still stood as the truck sped by—

And then Lotor made a noise, quickly pulled his piece of pizza away from Kova’s munching mouth, looking chagrined while Allura giggled at him in delight, tossing Kova a piece of bread from her own pizza to call him away.

* * *

It was early afternoon by the time they arrived at the Nile Ritz-Carlton hotel in Cairo. They snuck Lotor in through the back, and Zarkon introduced him to the wonders of a modern shower while Alfor sped away in Red Lion, to load Lotor’s few priceless belongings onto their secured personal airplane for him to keep.

Soon, Zarkon stood outside the bathroom door, his voice quiet as he half-listened to Prince Lotor hum some Egyptian song in the shower—fearful that the boy would somehow find a way to drown himself—and half-listened to his wife, Honerva, lilt in his ear in worry.

“ _You say that you…found a child_?” she asked, her voice tightening. “ _My love, tell me that you did not do something barbaric, like buy one_.” 

He sat down on the bed in his room, his aged face in a twist despite the rich and cheery decorations around him. “That is not what happened.” 

Honerva’s voice lifted up in a great pain. “ _How else would you have found a child? All the legal agencies have rejected us_.”

Zarkon rubbed his temples. “He is not a…child,” he confessed, “but a young man whose family died in unfortunate ways.”

There was a great silence. Honerva’s voice then grew quiet. She seemed upset. “ _You must be careful. There are many con artists, and you are not the most perceptive against emotional manipulations_.”

The father’s righteous passion rose. “He is no deception.”

“ _Did you find him shortly after opening the tomb_?” Honerva’s voice raised as well. “ _If others knew of your find, then you would be a target for treasure seekers. This boy you have found may be trying to steal from you._ ”

From the other side of the bathroom door, Prince Lotor’s hum was a merry stream of syllables that Zarkon could barely understand, but it sounded like a hymn to Tefnut, the Egyptian goddess of water. Zarkon huffed in a mix of hilarity and frustration. “No, my love, he is not stealing from me. Rather, he is eager to offer us many things if we take him in.”

The water shut off, but the pleasant humming continued.

“ _How old is he? How did he lose his family?”_

“Ah, he’s….” Zarkon’s face twisted. “I’m not sure of his exact age. But his family died in war. We found him alone.”

That inspired some level of reverent silence in Honerva. She sighed, her voice growing watery. “ _War_?”

“Yes.”

“ _What is this process for helping him, then? Is he still young enough that he must be adopted? His physical and mental state—what help does he require? His education—is he educated for his age, or_ —?”

Just then, the door opened, and a merry, water-logged Prince Lotor slipped through. His white hair was matted down, spilling across his naked, broad shoulders. He had expertly tied a white towel around his waist and now bore the scent of hotel shampoos and soaps, but in his large hands, he held Zarkon’s expensive oud cologne, inspecting it curiously and spraying some upon his neck, smiling brightly. He declared loudly, not seeing that Zarkon was speaking to another, “ _How exquisite are the falling waters and the perfumes! This modern world is pleasant._ ”

Zarkon face-faulted, then cupped a hand over the phone. “ _Quiet please. I am speaking to my wife, and she does not know you yet. And do not waste all of my oud._ ”

The prince’s eyes widened. He paused almost mid-step, his hands hesitating upon the cologne bottle. Then he very carefully set the bottle down, and then proceeded to whisper, “ _How do you speak to her? You hold only a metal contraption to your head_.” He raised a finger. “ _Ah, another modern invention, perhaps_.”

Zarkon hesitantly turned back to his conversation, waving off Lotor by pointing to the pile of clothes on the other side of the bed. He switched to Standard so that the prince would not understand. “He is quite intelligent, although he lacks understanding for things you and I take for granted.” And then the father’s face faulted again when he heard the wet slop of a towel drop while the prince began to dress directly behind him. “His culture is…a little different from ours.”

On the other side of the bed, a naked Lotor raised up a Coca-Cola t-shirt that Zarkon had pulled from his own suitcase. He fumbled with it a bit before realizing how it worked, and he patted the soft cotton which hid his scars, in delight of the range of motion and the scent of his father. He more confidently grabbed for the sweatpants, his wet hair swinging down his shoulder as he leaned over to pull them up. “ _This fabric is thick to wear in desert heat_ ,” he murmured in surprise.

Zarkon placed his hand over the phone again. “We will buy you clothes of your own soon. For now, you must wear it.” And then he returned to his conversation with Honerva.

The prince meanwhile began to inspect other things, running his fingers along the soft threads of the thick bed comforter. His blue eyes then came across the bedside table, which held a strange, flat object made of leather. He reached out to touch it, flipping it open curiously to see strange flat cards and protected, small portraits of impossible living color and depth. He lifted Zarkon’s wallet, reverently flipping through the portraits held within it—carrying images of a younger Zarkon and Alfor smiling before the aged Sphinx, another image of a very young Allura sitting in a chair with food all over her face—

Lotor’s lips quirked in an awed delight, and then as he turned the pages, the delight in him slipped into a crushing, all-encompassing reverence. Page after page were portraits of a beautiful woman smiling brightly, her gold eyes carrying a living warmth he recalled from his previous life.

“ _Mater_ ,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His eyes began to water as he stroked the portrait’s face. This woman before him had grayish hair that increasingly had shocked white with every new portrait of her. But it was her, wearing saris more similar to the clothing of Prince Atharv and Princess Alaya in his memory. His breath hitched, and he moved, his white hair flickering around him. And then he kneeled before Zarkon, raising up the picture. “ _Is this the woman to whom you speak now_?”

A curious Kova jumped onto the bed.

Zarkon lowered the phone, his dark eyes focusing hard on his son, an emotion rising in him. “ _You recognize her_?”

“ _My mother_ ,” the prince whispered. “ _She is my mother_.”

“ _Zarkon_?” came an uncertain warble from Honerva. “ _Is someone with you? Is it him—this boy_?”

For a time, Zarkon failed to speak to either one. He covered the phone’s receiver, then murmured, “I do not know if she would recognize you as I do.”

The man looked up at him, vulnerable. He pressed his lips together, looking suddenly much younger than he was. He managed a silent nod, then looked away, still holding the picture close to him.

“I will call you back,” Zarkon promised to his wife, his voice catching. “But I wanted to let you know that I have found a young man who needs our help. And he would like to meet you. Would you allow me to bring him home so that you may meet him?”

Honerva’s breath hitched. “… _Of course, I will not deny him if he is so willing to go with you. But…this is all rather sudden, and not at all how I imagined it. I’d—I’d imagined a little one to hold_.”

“I know, my love,” he said, voice softening. “But I promise, you will not regret opening your heart to him. And I do not believe age decreases one’s need for family.” And his eyes flickered back to the young man sitting cross-legged on the hotel floor, his white hair streaming down his cheeks and shoulders and catching the sun from the window, making him appear to glow. “Also, ah, it appears he has a pet cat.”

On the other end of the phone, Honerva’s voice lifted in curiosity…and hilarity. “ _A cat? I thought you hated cats_.”

“I do,” Zarkon mourned. Then he gently patted little Kova’s head, and the cat meowed happily, purring against him. “But this one is not so bad, and is very attached to the boy.”

“ _Well, then. Anyone who can make you love a cat is more than welcome in our home_.” There was a vulnerable edge of delight in her voice now—as if somehow, it was all beginning to feel real. “ _Are we to be foster parents, then? Do you think he might stay with us for a long time or until he is up on his feet? Have you told him about me and my…limitations_?”

“ _Ātashé del am, I believe he might stay_.” His voice lilted in a light deadpan. “ _And you are **far** from limited._”

* * *

A freshly bathed Allura Singh sat upon her bed in the hotel, typing away on her laptop, with a cellphone held between her bare shoulder and her ear. “Yes, I understand,” she spoke in fluent Punjabi, her eyes narrowed upon her laptop. “The restoration of engines 2 and 3 will have to wait until I return—I’d much prefer to do it myself.”

A pause.

Allura giggled. “I know, Coran, but I do trust you to help run the business while I’m out. The others do respect you—you just have to…not twitch your mustache in that silly way you do.”

There was a knock on the door. And then a soft, male voice murmured uncertainly, “Allura?”

She looked up, eyes wide. Something deep within fluttered at even the sound of Prince Lotor’s voice. She hesitantly readjusted the strap of her tank top, then scooted off her bed. “And, ah, yes I am having quite a bit of fun here in Egypt with father and Zarkon. So much fun, actually.” She laughed nervously. “I never really…understood father’s fascination with it. Until I realized that the history is particularly _alive_ here.”

The woman’s long, white curls bounced in her wild bun as she moved to unlock the door. “Ah, and yes, father did find that tomb he was looking for.” A pause, and she opened the door, wide-eyed to see an innocent-looking prince standing before her. Her voice caught. “No, Coran, just…pottery and a few odds and ends. The tomb had been ransacked, it seems.” She managed a weak smile at Lotor and waved him in.

The man curiously watched her speak on the phone, leaning in to peer at the glowing numbers he could see on the screen. It was far different from the solid phone with a cord that Zarkon had used in the room.

Allura’s eyes widened at how close he had become. His eyes flickered to hers.

Dark cheeks flushed.

Coran’s voice echoed in. “ _Well, that’s a darn shame that there wasn’t anything more to be found. Your father has been after that tomb of the missing prince for so long. But your trucks—they’ve held up well, as expected_?”

Her voice strangled. “As expected, yes. The coating we designed is holding up against sandstorms, even.”

The space between her lips and the prince’s felt hot and heavy with intention. “ _Dorood_ ,” he murmured to her.

_Hello._

It was only after a pause that Allura realized the man carried a particularly excited Kova in his arms, who was pawing for her, meowing for attention. Her eyes widened, and she stuttered into her phone, “My apologies, Coran, it appears I’m needed. I’ll call you back.” And then she ended the call, just in time for Kova to jump from Lotor’s arms to begin pawing at her leg in need of love and affection. “Ah, what is this? A visit from a cute kitty?”

She kneeled down to give Kova a pet, scratching his ears.

The cat meowed happily, purring.

Allura’s eyes raised to Lotor as he kneeled beside her.

“Kova,” he said helplessly, motioning to the cat and managing a weak smile. “ _He missed you, as did I_.”

Although she could not understand his language, Allura patted the cat with an increasing fondness, knowing that she was wanted. “Aw, Kova. Did you need attention from me? Were you whining for me?”

And as she ran her fingers down Kova’s soft fur, she felt a flash of summer wind, and the memory of Prince Lotor’s hearty laugh as a black cat pawed at her skirts. She recalled the sight of gold and gem-encrusted sandals hitting the dirt, with the prince raising up to his full glory, glimmering in the sun.

Allura’s breath hitched, and she stared up at Lotor, a deep flush rising within her. For in her memories, she also suddenly recalled the prince raising her up, and spinning her around in delight. Her fingers paused on Kova’s fur as she breathed in Lotor’s scent around her. A raw, deep ache—something her spirit could hardly vocalize—overwhelmed her, in want for Lotor’s lips upon hers, and his hands stroking down her arms—

—as if it had happened before.

The woman dared to look up at him, her eyes wide in surprise.

He searched her eyes, an ache in him as well. And then he looked away, weakly waggling the shirt he wore. His velvet voice twisted uncertainly in a word he had just learned from Zarkon, “Coca….cola.” And then his face tightened, because it was not the word he desired to speak with her. He managed a weak laugh.

Allura could not help it. Her lips split in a sad giggle. “Yes, coca-cola. I see that Zarkon has dressed you for the modern age, complete with product placement.”

The prince smiled back at her, recognizing the words _Zarkon_ and _coca-cola._ His smile lit his face handsomely, his white hair framing his sharp cheekbones in a way that sparked a memory of a similar beam.

She felt a hard ache light between her legs. The space between her face and his felt exceptionally heavy, as if she desired to cup his face and bridge the gap between them with a merry and loving kiss. She said weakly, her voice softening, “Oh dear, I keep having images of you.”

Prince Lotor searched her eyes, attempting to ascertain her meaning.

Allura swallowed hard. Her fingers tingled with the heat of skin that was not her own—sliding up golden vambraces warm with the heat of their owner—“I think we have some…history between us, don’t we,” she whispered.

He blinked at her, those bright blue eyes aching for connection.

Allura’s breath hitched. “And do you know what the worst part of it is? I’ve never felt this way for anyone before. And I can’t even understand you.” She stuttered, her white brows knitting together. “Or—or maybe that’s a good thing. I’m not sure I’d be so candid if you could understand me.”

The man tilted his head, and then an adoration flickered across his face. He raised up a hand and gently stroked her flushed cheek. His velvet voice lilted in a soft murmur of Persian that Allura could not understand. Then he pulled his hand away, moving to rummage in the pocket of his sweatpants in search for something.

He held out a pure-gold earring, which dangled as an oval shape, housing within them the outline of several lotus leaves. He moved them toward her, as if to say, _For you_.

Allura’s eyes widened. “Oh. This was the earring you wore when—when we found you.” She looked up in confusion, then back down.

And suddenly, she found herself in the middle of a field, her pink sari billowing as she swept back Lotor’s dark hair, carefully inserting her earring into his ear—

.

_“This is my parting gift to you,” she murmured softly, an ache in her voice. “You will return it to me when you see me next.” Her own right ear still bore its match, glimmering in the light._

_The prince had moaned, leaning into her touch. “I do not wish to leave you at all.”_

_Her fingers slipped from the shell of his ear, lovingly. She kneeled beside him. “We have our own battles to fight. But we will be victorious and will see a new age, together.”_

_Lotor turned to her, his blue eyes aching despite the merry dangle of his new earring. He reached up and touched her cheek. “I may yet die to free Egypt, just as you may die to free your people.”_

_The princess closed her eyes, her lips stretching in a sad delight. “I will have seven lifetimes with you. If we die before we meet again—” Her voice caught in an earnest emotion—“then you will return this earring to me in the next life, yes?”_

_His fingers slid down her soft cheek to trail her full lips. He teased in a light pain. “But we are not yet married. My seven lives with you have not yet begun.”_

_Her lips pressed a gentle kiss to his fingers, her bright eyes opening to stare at him. “They could begin,” she whispered, searching his eyes, “right now.”_

_._

Allura’s fingers shakily curled over the earring, haunted as she stared up at the prince, her eyes beginning to water with tears of deep affection—and revelation, that after many lost lifetimes, Lotor had finally fulfilled her wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re now into September of 2020, and I’m pretty sure my brain still thinks it’s March a;jdfa;sfj
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you’re all still safe and healthy and that you enjoyed this latest chapter! As always, I love love feedback—whether it’s constructive criticism or just what you liked about the chapter! Hoping to keep Lotura fandom fed for as long as I can! Also, I’m happy to consider requests too. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please review!


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